The Oath
by tfm
Summary: Aaron Hotchner made an oath to bring Emily Prentiss home alive. Fulfilling that oath just got a little bit harder. Spoilers to Lauren. Gen/H/P friendship.
1. Part One

**Title: **The Oath  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13**  
>Fandom: <strong>Criminal Minds**  
>CharactersPairing: **Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, others – gen/canon pairings (Garcia/Kevin, Prentiss/Doyle)  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Suspense/Angst**  
>Summary: <strong>Aaron Hotchner made an oath to bring Emily Prentiss home alive. Fulfilling that oath just got a little bit harder.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Spoilers to Lauren (6x18).  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I'll admit, I've played a little fast and loose with some of the stuff they gave us in the episode, partially because it works better for the story, and partially because what they gave us is a little inconsistent. Take with a grain of salt.  
><strong>Author's Note II: <strong>An unbelievable amount of thanks to yellowsmurf6 and microgirl8225, without whom this story would be just a blip on the horizon.

Part One

_Eight years previously_

Emily Prentiss set her coffee cup down at the circular table, and slumped into her chair. 'Big night last night?' Tsia asked, evidently amused at the situation.

'I hate you,' Emily mumbled into her folded arms. Yes, it had been a big night, but the fact that she had been working meant that it wasn't even a _fun_ big night. At Clyde's behest, she had spent the night chatting up an arms dealer trying to get some intel for some case that he and Sean were looking into.

Unfortunately, the guy had kept buying her drinks – not enough to get her drunk, but enough that she was feeling like crap this morning.

'What did you manage to find out?' Clyde's voice asked, tapping Emily's shoulder. She looked up to find that he had left a bottle of water and a tiny foil packet of alka-seltzer in front of her.

'Thanks.' Emily took a long sip from the bottle before tearing open the packet. 'According to the guy I spoke to, the only person who knows anything about the real identity of "Valhalla" is another ex-IRA weapons dealer – Ian Doyle.' It was the same information she'd relayed to Clyde and Sean earlier that morning, but the British SIS agent still frowned.

'You've heard of Doyle?' Jeremy asked their team leader.

'He's a dangerous man,' Clyde told them bluntly. 'Smuggling weapons to terrorists.'

'Are we sure _he's_ not Valhalla?' Emily queried.

'It has been suggested,' Clyde admitted. 'But I would prefer confirmation on his distributors before we bring him in anyway; if we play our cards right, we could cripple more than one supplier.'

'So what else do we know about Doyle?'

There was a clicking sound, and Doyle's face flashed on the projector screen. 'Ian Doyle, Irish-Catholic – parents were killed when he was a child; the records don't exactly spell it out, but it's evident that the deaths were IRA related.'

'What do we know about _his_ time in the IRA?' Tsia asked.

'Frustratingly little,' Clyde said. 'Which makes believing that he's Valhalla much easier.'

'Something tells we're going to be investigating Doyle a little further before jumping to conclusions,' Emily sighed.

'You assume correctly, Agent Prentiss,' Clyde smirked. He didn't elaborate on the point straight away, instead moving to the next slide of the PowerPoint, which was filled entirely with photos of a young woman with dark blond hair.

'Is that his wife?'

'No. This is Lucy Cavanaugh – born in Boston, but immigrated to Northern Ireland with her father when she was ten. We believe that she and Doyle were romantically linked during his time with the IRA.'

'Is she IRA, too?'

'She _was_,' Clyde corrected. 'Right up until she was killed in an explosion four years ago.'

'You think our way in is to seduce him?' Emily asked, rubbing her eyes.

'You used to be Catholic, didn't you?' Clyde answered. Emily blinked twice, before she realized the temerity of what he was asking.

'"Used to be" being the operative phrase there.'

'But you know enough about it, to be able to fool Doyle.'

'So might anyone who spent a few hours studying it.'

Clyde gave her a look. Emily wasn't so sure why she was so resistant to the idea. She'd done undercover seductions before, but nothing as deep as this. Truth told, there was nothing in her life that would be overly affected by walking away from it for six months, except maybe the fact that someone would have to collect her mail for her.

'You can't fake Catholic guilt,' Clyde said. 'And we all know that experience is far more beneficial than a crash course.'

'Alright,' Emily conceded. It wasn't as though it was a lifetime thing. A few months.

She could do this.

_What's the worst that could happen?_

…

Hotch was down the hallway from the Visitor's Lounge, attempting to negotiate with the coffee vending machine when JJ approached him. The machine had given him white, instead of black, and no amount of thumping was going to change that fact.

JJ took a breath, and Hotch immediately turned his attention away from the machine. 'How is she?'

JJ looked around furtively, before answering. 'Emily's out of surgery – she should be fine.'

Hotch sighed, but JJ's expression was not one of relief. It was one of…guilt.

'Doyle's still out there,' JJ reminded him.

'I know.'

'We can make sure he doesn't come after her, but that means…'

Hotch nodded. He knew what it meant. Emily Prentiss was going to die on that operating table.

'Is Emily lucid yet?'

'Not yet,' JJ shook her head. 'I need to run it by her, before we make anything official, but given the circumstances, I don't imagine she'll have any objection.'

_Given the circumstances_.

Ian Doyle would come after everyone that Emily Prentiss loved, just to get her to tell him where his son was. He would kidnap, and he would torture, and he would kill, without reservation. That meant not just the team, but their families, too. It meant Jack, and Henry, and Kevin, and Will. It meant Reid's mother, and it meant Morgan's sisters.

_It was for the best_ – that was what he tried to tell himself.

Never mind that he was all but abandoning one of his team. Never mind that Emily Prentiss would be alone, while her friends mourned her.

_It was for the best._

…

'She never made it off the table.'

Aaron Hotchner watched his team break down.

He could have stopped it with two words. Two magical words that would have ended their pain: 'Emily's alive.'

But he didn't.

And somehow, that made his own pain worse. Knowing that they were suffering needlessly. Knowing that for the next three weeks, minimum, there would be tears and hugs and nightmares and if David Rossi had anything to say about it, a _lot_ of drinking.

There was no replacing Emily Prentiss – that much, Hotch already knew. That much, the rest of the team knew. What the rest of the team _didn't_ know, was that Emily Prentiss wasn't dead. What the rest of the team _didn't_ know was that she was in a secured hospital room, barely a hundred feet from where they were standing.

_You took an oath to protect the laws of your country, and I took one to protect the secrets of mine._

Hotch had thought himself somehow different from the British SIS agent that had worked with Emily so long ago, but now he was the one that was keeping secrets.

_To keep them safe_, he told himself.

That was the price they paid.

…

Emily Prentiss woke in haze of morphine and memories that she'd tried so hard to forget.

_Doyle. What happened to Doyle?_

She remembered the fight and everything that led up to it. She remembered the brand to her chest, the gun to her head, and the jagged table leg to the stomach. She remembered watching Ian Doyle get away yet again as she lay there, bleeding to death.

And even after all of that, she'd made it through alive.

Go figure.

The room was eerily quiet, to the point where Emily was half sure that the hospital must have been evacuated, and the staff simply must have forgotten about her. The steady beep of the heart-rate monitor was the only sound.

Emily frowned.

She'd been here before, both in the hospital bed, and in the chair, waiting for a team member to wake up. More often than not, the room would always have at least one concerned FBI agent waiting, the rest kicked out by irate nursing staff, or in search of sustenance to keep them going another twelve hours.

There was no-one sitting by Emily's bedside. It was like a kick to the ribs, but at the same time, she knew she deserved it. She had lied to them, betrayed them, to protect them from Doyle. To protect Declan.

Though there seemed to be an ungodly amount of painkillers pumping through her veins, she felt an ache at her stomach, and the tightness of the bandage wrapped around it. The clover brand at her breast was similarly bandaged, and Emily put a hand to it. Doyle didn't need to give her a permanent mark – the memories that had been etched in her mind were still vivid, even after seven years.

The door opened, and Emily started, reaching for some kind of weapon. She relaxed slightly, when she realized it was JJ.

It had been a long time since Emily had seen JJ – between the FBI, and the DOD, girls' nights weren't much of an option anymore.

'Hey,' Emily groaned, trying to sit up.

'Hey,' JJ said warmly, but there was a sadness in her eyes. Emily's heart skipped a beat – had Doyle killed one of the team? Was JJ crying because Morgan had taken a bullet in the raid, or because another sniper had taken out Rossi?

'What's going on?'

JJ frowned. 'You don't remember?'

'Remember what?' Emily heard the warble of her own voice. What was she supposed to remember?

'You've been in and out of consciousness the last few days,' JJ explained. 'Doyle escaped, so we were forced to…take certain measures. He thinks you're dead.'

'Oh,' was all Emily could say. And then it hit her. If Doyle thought she was dead, then that meant everyone _else_ thought she was dead, too. 'Who else knows?'

'Hotch knows,' JJ confirmed. 'As far as the rest of the team is aware, you bled out on the operating table.'

Emily didn't say anything for several moments. She stared at the ground, trying to will away the tears that were forming in her eyes. She never got a chance to say goodbye.

She never got a chance to say_ I'm sorry._

'He's on the top of the most wanted list,' JJ explained. 'For, among other things, the murder of an FBI agent.' She stared Emily in the eye, with a look of cold steel that reminded Emily just how good the other woman was at her job. 'We'll find him before he gets to Declan.'

Emily gave a bitter smile. 'I'm going to have to leave the country, aren't I?'

JJ nodded. 'There's too much of a risk, staying here. You've been in the paper a few times, and your death even made the news.'

'Did you tape it?' Emily asked, with a morbid curiosity. JJ stared at her.

'No, but I'm sure it's on YouTube, somewhere.'

'When's the funeral?'

'Tomorrow,' JJ told her. 'And no, you can't show up wearing a clever disguise. Risk aside, you're flying out tonight.'

'Where?'

'Paris, until we can get your covers established. After that, you'll be met by a handler.'

'Something tells me that I'm not going to be allowed on the "track down and kill Ian Doyle" Taskforce.'

JJ grimaced. 'The CIA doesn't want to take that risk. You're being considered a "freelance agent." It's not a paid vacation, so no sunbathing with fruity drinks that have umbrellas in them.'

'I doubt I'd be doing that with this scar anyway,' Emily admitted. JJ gave her a wan smile.

'You'll find what you can about Doyle's whereabouts, but in the end, the most important thing is to stay low. If it looks like your cover might be blown, move on.'

Emily laughed. 'It seems easy to forget that just a few months ago you were a communications liaison for the FBI.'

'Just a few months ago you were the woman that had worked for the FBI in a desk job for ten years,' JJ countered. Emily conceded the point. 'I have to go,' JJ added apologetically. 'Someone will come by this afternoon to take you to the airport. We can't risk you flying commercial, so you'll be taking a private jet.'

Emily frowned. 'Seems like faking my own death is going to eat up a lot of taxpayer dollars.'

'Well if all goes according to plan, it won't be for any more than a few months.'

Emily did not share JJ's optimism; Emily _knew_ Ian Doyle. A profile gave a basic description, but it wasn't in any way a replacement for spending time with him, for working with him. He was ruthless, and he was cunning, yet he loved those close to him. Clyde had called him a psychopath, but that was very much an overgeneralization.

A profile was just words.

'I need to get back to work,' JJ said apologetically. 'A nurse will be in to check on you later, but we don't want to put off your relocation for too long.'

'I guess I won't see you for a while then, huh?'

JJ gave a grim smile, and all of a sudden wrapped Emily in a loose hug. 'Stay safe.'

'I will,' Emily assured her. 'Keep an eye on the team – make sure Hotch isn't carrying this burden by himself.'

'I will,' JJ echoed.

'And make sure you give Henry lots of hugs for me.' JJ agreed, and then pulled away. She couldn't stay any longer, Emily knew. The fact that she was visiting the hospital at all was probably already suspicious enough. So JJ left, and Emily found herself staring at the walls, knowing she might never see the other woman again.

Time passed.

Hotch came by a little after lunchtime, face as stoic as always. 'You should have told us,' he said evenly. There wasn't anger in his voice, but there was some disappointment – whether he was disappointed that she was leaving, or because she had lied to them, it was hard to tell.

'I know,' Emily whispered, and she struggled to stop the tears at her eyes from turning into the harsh sobbing she felt in her chest. 'Take care of them. Make sure they don't mourn too much. And don't let any of them blame themselves – this was my own doing.'

Hotch raised an eyebrow. 'A little pot calling the kettle black, don't you think?' There was a twitch of a smile at his lips, and Emily gave a short laugh.

'If I hadn't been such a stubborn ass about it, Doyle might not have escaped.'

'Compared to the rest of us, I think you only rate fourth on the scale of "stubborn asses,"' Hotch said. It felt kind of strange, to see him joking with her, but then, she knew he was just trying to assuage the pain of the situation. JJ had said a few months, but realistically, it could be years before Emily was able to return, and Hotch had to keep up a façade of grief for the whole time.

'I'm going to miss you,' Emily admitted. 'I'm going to miss _all_ of you.' She might have felt a little better about the idea of going into hiding if the rest of the team knew, if they were waving those flashlights, even from however many thousand miles away. But they didn't.

Emily Prentiss would be alone in the dark.

…

_Eight years previously._

Emily Prentiss had been Lauren Reynolds for one week, three days, and six hours, give or take. Ian Doyle was not a man that revealed his emotions without reason, but Emily could tell that he was definitely attracted to her.

Or attracted to Lauren, rather. Not that there was a difference in Emily's mind – for all intents and purposes, she _was_ Lauren Reynolds for the indefinite future. Lauren was a lot like Emily in some ways, yet so different in other ways.

For one thing, Emily Prentiss was not an international arms dealer.

The agency had given her a thorough course on every single kind of weapon that she could possibly think of, some of which she'd already known, but a lot of which she hadn't. Thanks to the undercover work she did, Emily was a surface level expert on a wide variety of subjects; the history of European art, thanks to a short stint trying to track down a fence that had gotten himself involved with the wrong people. How to defuse a pipe bomb, courtesy of a nasty encounter in the back of truck in Kazakhstan that she was not keen on repeating. The list went on.

Somehow, none of that mattered.

Ian Doyle didn't care as much about what weapons she could procure, or what she could tell him about the history of the Thompson submachine gun. He cared that she was an attractive woman, an enigma that needed unraveling.

That, of course, was what JTF-12 had been relying on. A source from within Doyle's inner circle had provided them with intelligence on the matter. Emily didn't know who the source was, and the source didn't know that JTF-12 was sending someone undercover. It was a lot safer that way.

Still, Emily let herself question the motives of each and every one of his compatriots. Was it Liam, the seemingly loyal right hand man? Was it Jean, the gardener at his Tuscan villa? Emily knew Liam well enough to know that he would _never_ betray Ian, and Jean didn't exactly get invited into secret meetings. No, it had to be someone on the inside, or who spent enough time around the people on the inside to pick up intelligence.

His Irish residence was impressive – being an arms dealer was apparently a rather lucrative venture.

A small shock of curly blond hair peered around the doorway. Emily gave a half smile, though deep in her heart, she felt sadness. If the intelligence JTF gathered was accurate, then this was Declan Jones, son of Doyle's housekeeper, and way, way too young to be caught up in something like this.

'Hey there,' Emily said with a smile. 'What're you doing?'

The boy held out a pair of action figures – Batman and Robin. 'Playing superheroes?' He nodded. 'How can you play Batman properly without a Joker?'

'I have a Joker!' he said, his voice embodying the same innocence she saw in his delicate features. With that, he ran from the room, only to return a few minutes later. The toys were obviously well-loved, but without any other children in the house, Emily wondered if he really had anyone to play with. He went to school, of course, but it didn't seem likely that Doyle would allow random five-year-old children to come over to the house for a play-date.

Together, they concocted a rather convoluted scenario in which Robin was abducted by the Joker (again) and Batman was forced to navigate an imaginary warehouse filled with acid vats and booby traps in order to rescue him.

'Can we play hide and seek?' he asked, and for one split second, Emily let her guard down. And that was how Doyle found her crouched by the refrigerator almost ten minutes later. At first, she thought he was going to freak – after all, hiding by refrigerators wasn't exactly behavior expected of an arms dealer like Lauren Reynolds.

'What are you doing?' he asked; his tone was curious, rather than angry.

'Um…'

'I found you!' Declan cried out, running towards Emily. She caught him in a hug, which surprised both of them. She looked up, and found that Doyle was smiling.

'You didn't find me. You found the tickle monster!'

Declan let out a high-pitched squeal as Emily started to tickle him, running behind Doyle for protection. He put a hand on the boy's shoulder, and Emily immediately slipped into information gathering mode. Based on their behavior, Doyle was far closer to Declan than one would expect an arms dealer to be to his housekeeper's son.

Was there a heart of gold behind that ruthless mask? He had shown hints of his more caring side to her – he spoke to her differently than he did to the rest of his associates, and it definitely was not simply because she was one of his suppliers. He laughed more readily, he flirted (quite well, for a man that was supposed to be a violent psychopath). He touched her hair, and her face, and for the first few weeks, Emily had to actively stop herself from feeling sick.

Now, though…It had been so long since her last romantic relationship that she couldn't help but feel warmth, instead of revulsion, as he put a hand on her shoulder. At Doyle's instruction, Declan ran off to play in his room.

Once upon a time, Emily had felt herself seize up whenever she was left alone with Doyle. She hoped, somehow, that he interpreted it as standoffishness, rather than a fear of intimacy.

'He likes you,' Doyle murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against her neck. 'I don't blame him.'

'Ian…'

'You're a beautiful woman, Lauren. Would you deny me that?'

'No,' Emily breathed, biting back a moan as he kissed her, passionately. The fingers of one hand twisted through her hair, the other caressed her cheek. He didn't taste bitter, like she had expected. She could close her eyes, and pretend that she was on a date, with an accountant, or a lawyer, or with someone with a horrendously boring – but safe – profession, but even that lie was too much.

Doyle had woken some kind of fire inside of her. Knowing what she knew, she couldn't love him (at least that's what she told herself) but she could lust, and really, that was the important part.

She felt his hand move down towards her breast, and pressed close, she could feel his hardness pressing against her thigh. 'I want you,' he breathed.

'I know,' Emily murmured. 'Want you too,' she told him.

It wasn't a lie.

She let Doyle direct her towards his bedroom; a simple, impersonal room that could just as easily have been a hotel room as it could have been the master bedroom of an arms dealer's abode. The bed had plain white sheets, with a beige comforter, and a single painting hanging at one end. There were no photographs, no tchotchke; nothing that said anything about who Ian Doyle _was._

Still, that was a consideration for another time. A time when she wasn't about to make love to a man who, by all rights, should have repulsed her. He stopped at the sight of her bare stomach, or rather, at the sight of the tattoo that extended from just below her breast, to her hipbone; a phoenix, wings spread in flight. Emily had taken it upon herself to get the marking not long after she had been accepted into Yale, both as a symbol of the new life she was about to begin, and the old life she had left behind. In retrospect, maybe it was a little cheesy, but Doyle seemed to like it.

He pressed his lips to the phoenix's tail. 'Any other surprises I should know about?' he asked, before kissing a trail up her stomach to the white lace edge of her bra.

'If I told you, they wouldn't be surprises anymore.' While her rebellious childhood had involved copious amounts of hair dye and substances of dubious legality, it had not extended to any outrageous piercings. There _was_ another tattoo, though – an Ouroboros on the back of her right shoulder. Doyle grinned at that, pressing a final kiss between the valley of her breasts, as he let his hand move around to unhook her bra.

It seemed strange, to think that a man like Ian Doyle could have such a gentle touch. If she hadn't know who he was – what he had done – she never would have guessed it from the way he made love to her. And it _was_ making love – for him, it wasn't just sex. Emily imagined that he did not invest in such intimate relationships lightly. For him, it would have to be a very special woman.

She wasn't sure how that made her feel.

Afterwards, he wrapped an arm around her in a gesture that was simultaneously loving and possessive, and in that moment, Emily knew that if anyone ever took Lauren Reynolds away from him, he would be _pissed_.

…

Emily's body ached as she settled herself into her seat. Apart from the pilots, the jet was otherwise empty; according to the nameless CIA agent that had taken her from the hospital to the airstrip, she was being met by an agent who would supply her with transport and a the papers needed to get through customs.

It was terrifyingly easy to get through security unhindered, if you knew the right people. That was the kind of thing that people like Doyle relied on.

The still healing scar at her stomach throbbed with pain – the painkillers were starting to wear off. The hospital had provided her with a prescription, but lucidity was not something that Emily wanted to sacrifice while Doyle was still on the loose.

Pain – well, pain was an old friend of hers.

There was a small kitchenette at one end of the plane, but even that was overstating it – there was a bar fridge, a coffee maker, and a small assortment of snacks. Enough to keep her satiated for the flight to Paris.

Emily didn't particularly feel like eating, but she'd balked at the hospital food earlier in the day, and if she didn't at least try to keep something down, then staying alert would be difficult.

In the bar fridge, Emily found some cans of soda, as well as half a dozen pre-packaged sandwiches. She took a can of Diet Coke, and a sandwich that, according to the label, was turkey with cranberry. Gas station sandwiches weren't quite a gourmet selection, but it was a step up from hospital food.

Not entirely terrible, for a last supper.

As soon as the plane touched down in Paris, Emily Prentiss would be well and truly dead. A few hours after that, she'd be buried as well, and almost every single person that she ever loved would be in mourning.

Hotch knew the truth, and JJ knew the truth, but the rest of the team was in the dark. Her mother…Emily wasn't exactly sure what they'd told her mother. The Ambassador probably had the right clearance level, but realistically, the fewer people that knew Emily was still alive, the better.

If Doyle ever found out, it would be beyond catastrophic.

Emily pulled the backpack open, wondering what kinds of things some anonymous government agent thought she'd need. In the front pocket, there was a travel wallet with a French passport, a credit card and a thick wad of Euros. The back pocket was mostly clothes – jeans, underwear, t-shirts – as well as three paperback books.

Emily gave a short laugh.

JJ was definitely complicit in this one: _The Lord of the Rings_, _Breakfast of Champions _and _The Godwulf Manuscript_, all in French. A note slipped in behind the cover of one of them confirmed it. Emily recognized JJ's neat handwriting.

_Emily – do you know how hard it is to find foreign language translations of Tolkien in D.C.? :). Remember that you in all of our hearts – Garcia sends way more love than you could possibly imagine, even if she doesn't realize it. Morgan and Rossi are both trying to stay strong, but they're hurting a lot. Reid…well, I think we all tend to support Reid a little more than we need to. I don't really know the new girl well enough to make a judgment, but Hotch says that she's still a little shell-shocked. I'll let Hotch speak for himself, because I'm sure you'll be seeing him between me writing this letter, and you reading it. I probably shouldn't be saying this for security reasons, but screw it – I _will_ be seeing you soon. Stay strong, and know that you have a lot of people behind you._

_All my love,_

_JJ_

A fallen tear smudged the black ink, and Emily quickly moved the letter out of the way before it could be further ruined by her onset of grief.

It was the first time she had let herself cry since she'd woken up that morning. She'd been trying to stay strong, in some sort of attempt to convince Hotch and JJ that she was okay with this, that she wasn't going to have a problem with leaving everything she'd ever known and loved behind.

Now that Emily was alone, she knew she had to admit the truth, if only to herself. Heavy sobs wracked her whole body, and there was no-one around to put a hand to her shoulder, and tell her that everything would be okay. The movement exacerbated her stomach wound, and pain shot through her torso.

Emily bit her lip, and willed herself to calm down.

_That's it. Compartmentalize. Lock it all away. You should be a fucking expert at this by now._

The first few weeks with Doyle had been the hardest; she'd done romantic stuff before in her undercover work, but the infiltration was usually short-term, and over before anything serious got a chance to happen. Doyle was different.

Doyle was supposed to fall in love with her. Like most arms dealers, he kept things close to his chest, revealing his thoughts, his feelings only to those he trusted implicitly. Emily could still remember the first touch of his hand against her skin, the first touch of his lips against hers.

Doyle was supposed to fall in love with her. She was never supposed to love him back.

Today, she would put a bullet in his head without hesitation. Emily would kill him – in cold blood, if necessary – to return to her family. She would kill him to save Declan.

She couldn't do either of those things, if she was overcome with grief, or doubt, or anger. She had to be the cold, distant person that she once was. She had to be ruthless, like Doyle.

There was a big difference between what she _had_ to do, and what she _could_ do. Emily didn't think she could be that person. Not anymore. Doyle wasn't the only person who had changed, only Emily's growth wasn't the result of seven years in a North Korean prison. It was the result of love, and trust, and friendship.

She couldn't let that go.

Not while there was even the slightest chance that things could go back to the way they once were. No matter how slight.

…

_Eight years previously_

'You know, you've never asked me about my past either,' Emily commented, from her position halfway down the sofa. Her head was in Doyle's lap, his hands brushing across her skull absent-mindedly as he stared at the fireplace.

Emily tried not to fidget with the chain around her neck. It figured, the only man who ever wanted to spent the rest of his life with her was the one who didn't even really know her at all.

'You're so closed off,' he countered. 'I was afraid…if I asked, I might scare you away.' There was a long pause. 'Tell me.'

'There isn't much to tell,' Emily admitted. She had a backstory planned out, which incorporated facets of her own childhood. Emily Prentiss could just have easily turned out the way Lauren Reynolds did. 'My mother was an emotionally distant alcoholic who was more interested in working than she was in raising a family. My father…' She paused, for effect. Her own father, of course, had been a good enough man that had been ill-suited to a life of politics.

She could feel Ian tighten beneath her. 'Not like that,' she quickly amended. 'He just…got angry a lot, and since my mother was never home…'

'Is he still alive?' Ian queried, in the kind of voice that anyone else would have determined innocent, but Emily could hear the darkness.

'No. They're both dead,' she told him, feeling his body slump in what could have just as easily been relief as disappointment. Another long silence. 'It's not that I'm not the marrying kind,' she told him. 'I just…every time I think about marriage, I think about_ them_, and…I don't want to turn out like that.'

'We won't,' Ian assured Emily, fingers moving to stroke her cheek. 'I would never – ever – raise a hand to you – you know that.'

'I know,' Emily nodded, only she didn't. The profile that had been put together so far painted Ian Doyle as a man who was ruthlessly violent against his enemies.

If he ever found out that Emily was lying to him, then the CIA would be lucky to get her body back in a single piece.

…

It was mid-afternoon, local time, when the plane landed in Paris, and Emily hadn't had any sleep. The fact that it was by choice did not alleviate her frustration in the slightest.

She was met on the tarmac by a suited and sunglassed man whom she took to be a DCRI agent. Maybe he'd even known Tsia, but Emily didn't ask. Still, after everything that had happened, she was wary of his allegiance, and kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary as the man escorted her through customs.

Emily was vaguely concerned that Doyle might have found some way to piggyback the security footage of every major airport in the world in order to track her down, but she figured that was just paranoia. In any case, even if he was watching, Emily was as capable of disappearing into a crowd as she was at infiltrating the organization of a known arms dealer.

Outside, the spring air was cool. Another city, Emily might have taken the time to appreciate, but by this point in her life, Paris had become a little old hat. Still, La Ville-Lumière was well-loved for a reason, and Emily had half a mind to do some shopping. Realistically speaking, she would need to anyway – the most important part of establishing a cover was becoming a completely different person  
>(at least, to everyone else's eyes).<p>

'_It's safer if I don't know where you're staying_,' the DCRI agent said, and Emily silently agreed. Doyle was in no way opposed to torturing information out of government agents. So she thanked him profusely, taking the card he handed her, with the instructions to call the number printed on in three days' time. Not too soon, but not too far away, either – it was enough time to get situated, but not too long that she would start getting antsy.

In theory, anyway.

Though her body cried out for sleep, Emily spent the first couple of hours wandering the streets – if there was anyone following her, she wanted to make their job as difficult as possible. Along the way, she changed out of the clothes she'd worn on the plane, and managed to procure a fairly realistic looking wig. Only when the sun had started to set did she find a hotel – middle of the range – and attempt to book a room.

Her accent, she hoped, was barely noticeable. While Emily had learned French at a young age, it was not so young that it fell within the critical period. Any native speaker who was paying any amount of attention could tell that French was not her first language. Still, she was pretty good at faking it; anyone she encountered would not remember having conversed with an American tourist who spoke perfect French.

Both the credit card and passport were processed without issue, and a plain white keycard was handed over. Emily gave her thanks, and made her way upstairs to her room. There was a single queen-sized bed, and a small table with chair, and not a whole lot else. Not the most interesting place to spend the next three days, but Emily had had worse.

What concerned her more was the horrible pit of anxiety in her stomach – what if Doyle had sent someone to follow her? What if he had followed her himself?

She lifted off her shirt, wincing at the pull of the stitches, and stared at the plain white bandage that covered the lower half of her tattoo.

_The phoenix burns to ash, only to be born anew. _She heard the words in Reid's voice, which wasn't exactly a realistic thought – Reid would have given a half hour treatise on the mythology of the creature, too.

The wound throbbed with pain, and even though she had settled, Emily decided against painkillers; the door had a lock and chain, but they weren't exactly hard to get past. Not for someone like Doyle. As a further measure, she tucked the chair underneath the door handle. At best, it would give her a few moments to find a weapon, or at the very least get her wits about her.

Clad in just a t-shirt and her underpants, Emily set jeans, shoes and socks beside the bed, just in case she needed to make a quick escape. It might have been easier to sleep in her clothes, but – even if it was just for tonight – Emily wanted to get some _sleep_.

Not the tossing and turning or the sitting on trains trying to keep her eyes open that had dominated the past few weeks. She wanted to close her eyes when it was dark, and let them open when the sun rose. She wanted to _not_ get woken at 4am by a text message, or come in past midnight after a case.

More than anything else, though, she wanted for Ian Doyle to be gone from her life.

But maybe that was just a pipe dream.

…

Morgan tightened the knot on his tie, as though that would somehow force the thing to actually sit straight. As a rule, he didn't usually wear ties. They made him feel overly formal, and restricted, and it was definitely a lot harder to run after an unsub with a long, flapping bit of material getting in the way of things.

More than that, though, he remembered the first time he had worn a tie to a funeral – two and a half decades ago, now, but the memory would be fresh in his mind for the rest of his life. Standing by a closed casket, in a suit with arms that were a little too short, and legs that needed to be let out at the hem. He stared at his father's final tomb, for what felt like an eternity, trying to comprehend.

He _still_ couldn't comprehend.

What the hell kind of cosmic justice dictated that his father should die, while a murderer lived. What the hell kind of cosmic justice let Ian Doyle live, and Emily Prentiss die? Derek Morgan could not reconcile those facts with a benevolent God.

A knock on the door jerked him back to the real world. Garcia had a key to the apartment, but she still always knocked, if only so she could hug him every time he opened the door. Today's hug was so tight, so long, that Morgan was almost positive he was going to pass out and miss the funeral.

Garcia's eyes were already streaked with tears, and he felt a pang in his chest. 'Hey, girl. What're you crying for?' he asked, gently. 'We'll get through this.'

Garcia shook her head. 'Every time I feel like I'm getting used to the idea of a world without Emily, I'll think of something she said, or did, and I'll start feeling depressed all over again.'

'That's normal,' he assured her. 'You just have to…you just have to stay strong,' he finished, weakly. No matter how much experience he had at dealing with death, it was so hard to conceptualize it, to put it into a tangible form. There was probably a whole damn library filled with books on how to deal with grief, and Morgan had not read a single one of them.

'It feels like my parents, all over again,' Garcia admitted. 'I got…lost, looking for a way to cope with their deaths, and even though I'm a different person now, I can't help but feel like the same thing is happening.'

'It won't,' Morgan assured her. 'No matter what, every single one of us is going to be there for each other. That's how we'll get through this, okay?'

'Okay,' Garcia sniffled, before giving him a soft thump on the shoulder. 'Come on, slow poke. Reid's waiting for us.'

After Garcia, Reid was probably taking Emily's death the hardest. They pulled up outside the younger agent's apartment building, to find him sitting on a bench by the adjacent bus-stop, wearing a suit and sunglasses. He tapped his foot against the concrete sidewalk, as if he hadn't even noticed their arrival.

Morgan tapped the horn lightly, and Reid started. He pulled his sunglasses off, eyes squinting against the light. Morgan gave a slight frown. It wasn't even that bright today.

'You alright, kid?' Morgan asked, frowning.

'Yeah,' Reid answered, which was a blatant lie. Morgan let it go.

After all, he wasn't exactly okay either.

…

The funeral was a solemn affair.

They had all lost people before, but somehow, it didn't quite seem the same. The team had been more than just colleagues – they were family.

Sometimes that made the hard days a little easier to deal with. But not today.

Hotch kept a blank face.

To the rest of the team, it would look like his trademark stoicism. JJ was the only one who _really_ knew what that mask was hiding. It was hiding his secrets. His lies.

Honesty and integrity were values that Aaron Hotchner held in high esteem. They were the values upon which he had based both his career as a prosecutor, and his career as a profiler. No matter how strongly he had held that oath, it was broken now.

He thought of Haley.

He thought of the woman that he loved, and how she was dead because of him. It felt wrong, somehow, like cheating – but this was a funeral, and no matter how stoic Aaron Hotchner was, it was not an occasion for masks of stoicism.

He felt like a traitor.

They _had_ lost Emily – just not in the way that everyone believed. It seemed a little easier, then, to let himself cry when he spoke words of Emily Prentiss' unwavering courage, of her compassion, of her friendship. Those words, at least, had truth to them, even if the tense was wrong.

As Hotch sat back down, Rossi clapped him on the shoulder, too overcome with his own tears to give any words of comfort. Aaron Hotchner had known David Rossi for almost twenty years, and he could not remember a time when he had seen the other man cry.

Rossi's speech was a little more personable, and a lot more tearful, and understandably so – the older man had been a lot closer to Emily than Hotch was. On some levels, Hotch was probably the person she had been _least_ close to.

Or maybe he was just making excuses.

'We're going for drinks,' Rossi announced, a little over half an hour later. Hotch checked his watch – it was almost four o'clock. A little early to start drinking on a normal day, but funerals – even fake funerals – seemed to follow their own special rules.

After a group discussion that Hotch chose not to participate in, it was decided that, seeing as it was too early for any bars to even really be open, and because Rossi probably had more variety of alcoholic beverages than the rest of the team put together, they would instead be going to the senior profiler's house.

'I think I'll just go home,' Hotch muttered, and Rossi gave him a look, before putting a hand to his shoulder and leading him away from the rest of the team.

'You can't just go home and drink alone, Aaron.'

'I've got to go pick up Jack.'

'So call Jessica. You can't just push this away again.'

And there it was.

'It's too soon,' he murmured, thinking of the woman that he never had the chance to properly mourn. Hotch hated himself for lying to his best friend. He _knew_ that David Rossi would take the secret to the grave if necessary, but Hotch couldn't give him that burden.

But maybe it wasn't really a lie.

Because it _was_ too soon, and the deceit somehow seemed to be tarnishing Haley's memory as well as Emily's.

_If you were a better profiler, you could have saved _both _of them. If you were a better profiler, you could have tracked down Foyet sooner. If you were a better profiler, you could have figured out why Emily was acting so strangely._

The team saw his guilt as grief, and in all honesty, he couldn't be entirely certain that it wasn't.

Soon, the alcohol was flowing, Rossi had put an order through for pizza delivery, and they reminisced.

Hotch remembered the awkward, self-conscious woman that had shown up in his office without warning – a contrast to both the headstrong, rebellious teenager that he'd met while doing security detail for Ambassador Prentiss, and the courageous, passionate woman that would have rather sacrificed her own life than see anyone she loved hurt.

Had that Emily Prentiss been just a shield – a barrier to prevent anyone from finding out she had done with the CIA? Or had it just been another piece in what proved to be an overly intricate puzzle?

'Did you ever find out what a "Sin to win" weekend was?' Garcia seemed to be asking Morgan. Having not been paying as much attention as would be expected of profiler, Hotch had no idea what the context of the question was.

'No,' Morgan admitted with a sad smile. 'But now, knowing what she…I can't help but think that maybe she spent the weekend in Atlantic City trying to stop a nuclear bomb from going off, or something. Spy stuff, you know?'

The conversation drifted towards science fiction, of all things, and Reid reluctantly told the tale of the time he and Emily had seen _Inception _in theaters, the day after the team had returned from a week-long case in Iowa. 'She fell asleep in the middle of the movie, and almost broke my jaw when she woke up,' Reid said. In a smaller voice, he added, 'We went out for ice-cream afterwards,' and Hotch wondered whether the younger man had wanted to keep that part of the story for himself.

The group fell into a pocket of silence – like some kind of black hole of misery, where not even the stories they told were enough to pull them from their slump. Hotch didn't dare look at JJ. Instead, he stared down at his untouched glass of whiskey, remembering the night that Emily and Rossi had invaded his office with three empty glasses and a bottle of expensive Bourbon.

'I spoke to Emily's neighbor,' JJ said, breaking the silence. 'She's visiting her niece next week, and can't keep looking after Sergio. Henry's not quite ready for cats yet,' she added, apologetically. Hotch frowned. He didn't even know that Emily _had_ a cat.

'I'm allergic,' Reid provided.

'Gadgets and kitty-cats – as cute as they may be – do not mix.'

'I have a dog.'

'Me too.'

Rossi gave Hotch a look. 'Weren't you saying something about getting Jack a pet?'

That was true – a goldfish, or a bird, maybe. Something low maintenance. At the same time, he felt like he owed it to Emily to make sure her cat was well-loved until she returned.

_If _she returned, that was.

While faking Emily's death had been an extreme security measure, there was always the chance that Doyle might find her anyway, or that he might stay on the run forever. Hotch didn't know how long he could keep this secret.

'Okay,' Hotch agreed, eyes fixed on some distant focal point. 'Okay.'

…

Hotch stared upwards at the moon, unwilling to meet the eyes of his co-conspirator. He'd known that the funeral was going to be the most difficult part of keeping up the charade, but their tears – their pain – was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

'She got to Paris okay?' he asked.

'Yes,' JJ confirmed. 'No dramas, whatsoever.' Save, of course, for the drama that accompanied faking your death and fleeing the country. 'The CIA's still putting together a more thorough variety of covers for her, and once that's done, I'll be flying out.'

'That's not in your job description,' he said with a frown.

'No,' JJ admitted. 'It isn't. But I know if I was in a foreign country pretending to be dead, then I'd sure as hell want to see a familiar face.'

She had a point – leaving Emily to fight this on her own had hurt almost as much as the fact that he was lying to the team. Maybe even more; leaving a team member behind was always a leader's worst fear. He had an obligation to lead, to keep them all together.

He had failed that obligation in every way possible.

…

It was dark outside when everyone started to head off. Hotch was the first, followed shortly by JJ. Morgan hadn't drunk a lot, by any definition of the word, but he stayed a little longer anyway to make sure he was good enough to drive.

'You're welcome to stay the night,' Rossi offered, and Morgan had considered it briefly – it was starting to get late – but he wanted to spend the night alone, in his own bed, mourning in his own way. In the end, Seaver was the only one who took Rossi up on his offer.

Reid, it seemed, had been planning on walking to the nearest Metro station, which Morgan point-blank refused to let happen. Never mind that it was the middle of the night (and not exactly a short walk), it would feel like leaving someone behind.

Even with two of the most talkative people that he knew in the car, the trip to Garcia's apartment was still the most lengthy, painful silence that Morgan had experienced in a long time.

'You sure you'll be alright?' Morgan asked, as he walked Garcia to her door.

Garcia gave him a sad smile. 'I have a sexy nerd waiting for me with hugs and chocolate.'

'I could give you hugs and chocolate,' Morgan offered.

'But not comfort sex,' she pointed out.

'Fair enough.' He pulled the technical analyst into a tight hug, and kissed her forehead. 'Stay safe, baby girl – I'll call you in the morning, 'kay?'

'Okay,' she nodded, sniffling into his shirt. The tears had started once again, and part of Morgan wanted to stay and comfort her, but he trusted that Kevin would do a better job.

Back in the car, Reid had his eyes closed, and his brow furrowed in pain. His expression relaxed the moment Morgan opened the car door, and he tried to pretend like nothing had happened, but Morgan was not going to let himself be fooled again.

'Everything okay, man?' he asked, which felt like the world's stupidest question, because things were so far from okay it wasn't funny. If things were okay, he wouldn't be sitting in the car outside Garcia's apartment building, still wearing the clothes from the funeral of one of his closest friends. If things were okay, he'd be at home with Clooney, watching TV, or out at a club, drinking and dancing. _Anything_ but this.

And maybe, if he'd pushed a little harder. Maybe, if he hadn't just let her brush him off so easily. Maybe they wouldn't be here. So when Reid said, 'I'm fine,' Morgan didn't believe it for a second, and he wasn't going to let it go.

'Reid,' he said, in the kind of voice that commanded attention. 'Reid, tell me what's wrong.'

'Headache,' Reid muttered, but it was more than that. _Headache _might have been an acceptable excuse if not for the way the younger man had deflected the question, and the tone of his voice when he did answer.

Morgan put a hand on Reid's shoulder, feeling the man stiffen beneath his touch. 'Reid…please tell me what's wrong.'

There was a long silence. 'I've been getting migraines.'

'For how long?'

Reid gave a slight shrug. 'A couple of months,' he said, a little evasively. There was no doubt in Morgan's mind that Reid would know exactly how long the headaches had lasted, as well as the frequency and timing of each one.

'Have you seen anyone about it?'

'The doctors I've seen say that it's probably psychosomatic,' he provided. 'But…'

Morgan nodded. With a history of mental illness in the family, psychosomatic wasn't exactly a convincing answer. 'Anyone else know?'

Reid made a strange sound – it took Morgan a few moments to realize that it was a sob. His eyes were still closed, but there were tears starting to form at the edge of them. 'Emily,' he said. 'Emily knew.'

_Oh_.

Morgan thought of so many things he could have said – that everything would be okay, that they would get through it all if they just stuck together, that Emily wouldn't have wanted them to mourn her like this. None of those stock catchphrases could encompass the enormous grief that was surging through him.

He left silence his answer.

'Was she…did she…?' Reid paused, seemingly lost for words, which in Morgan's book, was a first.

_Let me go_.

The finality of the words was stark. She had given up everything, to try and stop Doyle, to try and save Declan.

'She was…at peace,' he offered, which still didn't seem to be the right way to describe it. He'd always imagined someone being "at peace" with their death when they were one hundred and six, or if they'd been struggling with a terminal illness. Emily had a whole life left ahead of her; he wondered what had happened – what was so bad, that death was the only answer.

_She needed help, and you let her suffer in silence._

He tried to bite back the guilt, knowing that it would eat away at him as much as grief.

'It's not your fault,' Reid said. His eyes were open now, and they looked so old, so tired, for a man that wasn't even thirty yet. Morgan was willing to be that he wasn't the only one carrying guilt on his shoulders. 'You tried to help, but…I don't think Emily wanted to be helped.'

Morgan looked the other man in the eye. For so long, Spencer Reid had been the baby of the team, the one who was never quite at home interviewing suspects, or the guy that looked like a goddamn comedy routine in the field.

These days, Morgan sometimes felt like Reid was more mature than all of them.

'Don't let yourself make the same mistake,' was all he said, at the same time knowing he couldn't keep that promise himself.

…

Ashley wrung her hands together, staring at the door for minutes after it had clicked shut. She was regretting not taking up Morgan's offer of a ride – while she didn't really want to be going back to Quantico at this time of night, taking up Rossi's offer of a spare bed somehow felt like an intrusion on his privacy, his grief.

Aside from Emily, Rossi had been the one most accepting of her presence on the team. He had made her feel welcome. Tonight, more than any other night, she felt like a stranger.

'You okay?' Rossi asked, as he came back into the living room to collect the rest of the empty glasses. Ashley immediately felt a rush of embarrassment for not having helped him clean up.

'Yeah,' she said. 'Yeah, I just…I don't know how I'm supposed to feel.'

Rossi raised an eyebrow; it was a kind of smugness that Ashley wasn't entirely used to yet. She might have looked up to the man, but she didn't know him in the slightest. Her textbooks would have said that she was looking up to him because he was a replacement for her father, and that she was looking for the kind of recognition that she'd never had in her childhood.

Sometimes the textbooks were wrong.

Sometimes they weren't.

'You guys – you all knew Prentiss for years, before I joined the team. The stories you told – they have _no _meaning to me. I feel like...I don't have the right to be upset, but I've never—' She choked out a sob, shaking her head. 'I don't know how to handle this. When you start at the Academy, they say that most agents never fire their weapon in their entire career, and I look at what's happened since I've joined the team and…I'm not qualified for this, Rossi.'

He put a hand on her shoulder. 'There's a reason they like agents to have a certain amount of experience before joining the Behavioral Analysis Unit,' he told her. 'The things we see…the people we deal with…No amount of Academy training can prepare _anyone_ for that.'

'You're saying I should quit the team?' she asked, eyes widening.

'I'm saying it's not something that _anyone_ is ever prepared for. You don't just wake up one morning, ready for it. It's something that comes with time, and experience. Nobody expects you to be a fantastic agent right off the bat, but saying you don't have a right to grieve? That's bullshit.'

Ashley nodded. 'Thanks,' she said. 'For, um…accepting me, and helping me be a better agent. I want to be able to say that I'm a profiler; and that I _belong_, but…that's going to take a while, isn't it?'

Rossi gave a smile. 'All the best things do.'

…

Kevin was waiting with freshly baked cookies, and _Firefly _DVDs. He'd almost gone with _Buffy_, before he realized that things involving stakes were probably a very, very bad idea. Penelope's eyes were streaked with tears as she came inside, immediately sinking into Kevin's embrace.

Agent Morgan gave him a look that quite clearly said, "Take care of her," and Kevin nodded, intending to do just that. He had only met Agent Prentiss a few times, but from the way Penelope spoke of her – the way Penelope spoke about _all_ the team – she was a good agent, and a good friend.

Maybe later, they'd talk about it, but for now, Kevin could tell that Penelope was content to let him wrap his arms around her as they lay down on the sofa.

Before the first episode was even half finished, she rolled over to face him, eyes still wet with tears. 'I love you,' she blurted out, which wasn't exactly what Kevin had expected to hear. It wasn't the first time she'd said it, but the circumstances didn't quite feel right for the declaration of feelings. 'I just…I never really got to tell Emily how much she meant to me, and now she's dead, and I'll never see her again. She'll never know.'

Kevin pressed his nose against hers. 'Of course she knew, baby. She was a profiler. They know that kind of thing.'

'But I didn't_ tell_ her,' Garcia insisted. 'And now every time I walk by her desk, or into the Ladies Bathroom, I'll think about how she was alone, without any of us there to hold her hand.'

Kevin sucked at this. He was good with computers, not people, and he knew that no matter how hard he tried to convince the woman he loved that everything was going to be okay, his word would be nothing compared to that of one of her team members, like Agent Morgan, or Agent Rossi, or Agent Hotchner.

Maybe that fact should have made him jealous, or inadequate, or like a bad person (and in all honesty, it did, a little bit), but at the same time, it warmed his heart to know that there were people out there who loved this woman – this beautiful, wonderful, fantastic woman – as much as he did.

…

By the time they left the house, afternoon had shifted to twilight and then to the dark of night. None of them noticed the dark sedan parked halfway down the street, its single occupant watching them.

Another day, they would have seen it, but today…today, they were overcome with the grief of losing a loved one.

Ian Doyle could sympathize with that grief. He had lost the woman he loved twice over – first Lucy, and then Lauren. His heart ached when he thought of them, forever etched into his memory.

Once the last car had left, so too did Doyle; he didn't think that the veteran or the cadet would know anything about where Declan was. They were not complicit in politics, or espionage. Emily would never have told the SIS scum – not if her goal was to keep Declan alive. No – if he wanted to find Declan, then he would have to focus his attention on the Unit Chief. Aaron Hotchner. Hotch.

If anyone in the world knew where to find Declan, it was Aaron Hotchner.

And Ian Doyle was going to make him talk.


	2. Part Two

**Title: **The Oath  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13**  
>Fandom: <strong>Criminal Minds**  
>CharactersPairing: **Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, others – gen/canon pairings (Garcia/Kevin, Prentiss/Doyle)  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Suspense/Angst**  
>Summary: <strong>Aaron Hotchner made an oath to bring Emily Prentiss home alive. Fulfilling that oath just got a little bit harder.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Spoilers to Lauren (6x18).  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I'll admit, I've played a little fast and loose with some of the stuff they gave us in the episode, partially because it works better for the story, and partially because what they gave us is a little inconsistent. Take with a grain of salt.  
><strong>Author's Note II: <strong>An unbelievable amount of thanks to yellowsmurf6 and microgirl8225, without whom this story would be just a blip on the horizon.

Part Two

_Eight years previously_

'I wish you'd told me earlier.' Emily spoke only after a long silence. Doyle had been distant, ever since she'd declined his offer of parenthood. Part of her had been so desperate for him to accept her counter-offer, even though she knew that JTF-12 would never let him just walk away like that.

She had a dream – not a very realistic dream – of her, and Ian, and Declan, living out their lives away from it all. Away from the guns, and the murder, and the IRA. It wasn't a life that Doyle could ever lead. It wasn't a life that _Emily_ could ever lead.

She needed that adrenaline, pumping through her veins. It was like a drug. She could no sooner let that go than she could a limb, or an eye, or an ear.

'I had to be sure…I needed to trust you,' Doyle explained. They had been in bed for almost an hour, but Emily remained curled into his chest, wide awake. 'I have so many enemies; I couldn't be sure you weren't one of them.'

Emily felt a sudden pang of guilt, and could have kicked herself for it.

_Nice job, Emily._ _You just _had _to go and fall in love._

If the guilt was bad now, she couldn't imagine what it would be like in one month, or three month, or six months, when JTF-12 was raiding slapping the handcuffs on Doyle, and telling her that it was finally over.

That little boy would grow up without a father.

Based on what Doyle had said, though, maybe he was better off that way. Emily was _not_ going to let Declan follow in his father's footsteps. She would protect him, whatever it took.

'Why don't you want children?' Doyle asked. 'And don't tell me it's just because of what we do, because I know it's more than that.'

Emily bit her lip.

She could, of course, have told him about Italy, but that was too deep, too personal. In any case, Doyle was a devout Catholic – no matter how much he loved her, it would drive a wedge between them.

How then, could she possibly tell him how she didn't feel like she deserved to be a mother?

She didn't.

'My parents…they probably shouldn't have even had me,' Emily told him. 'It was so easy to tell, that it had never been in their plans…that I was some kind of burden on their life. And look at me now.'

'Now, I see a beautiful, intelligent, wonderful woman, who I love.' He kissed the top of her head. 'You're not a bad person. Don't _ever_ let yourself think that.'

_Will you be thinking the same thing when you're locked in a prison cell?_

'The things I've done…The things _we've_ done.'

'What we've done, is fight for our beliefs – is there something so wrong about that?'

Emily didn't have an answer.

…

Sergio, as it turned out, was a small, black cat who loved to stick his nose where it didn't belong. No sooner than Hotch had brought the cat inside his apartment, and let him out of the cat carrier, the creature spent ten minutes sniffing around the place, before sitting himself beside a window and meowing loudly.

'You can't go outside,' Hotch told Sergio plainly, feeling quite ridiculous for doing so. Emily had apparently given the cat a little more free rein over his surroundings, but Hotch wanted to wait until he had become more accustomed to the inside before he opened the window. For all he knew, the first thing that Sergio would do was run off in search of Emily. He didn't want to have to explain that one in six months' time.

Both Hotch and Sergio started at the sound of a knock on the door. Hotch picked up the cat – much to both of their disdain – and carried him towards the door.

'Daddy!' Jack cried out, immediately wrapping his arms around Hotch's waist. Upon noticing the cat that his father held, Jack stared up solemnly. 'Did you get a kitty, Daddy?'

'This is Sergio,' Hotch said, setting the cat on the ground as Jessica pulled the door shut behind her. 'He's going to be staying with us for a bit. You can play with him, but be careful – it might take him a while to get used to you.'

Jack nodded enthusiastically, and then ran off after the cat, who had resumed his exploration of the living room.

'How was it?' Jessica asked, a pained expression on her face.

'It was…hard,' Hotch answered, though perhaps not for the reasons she would have expected. 'Emily was a good agent, and a good friend.'

'Are you going to tell him?' She nodded towards the living room, where Hotch could see his son rubbing the black cat's stomach.

'I need to,' he said, simply. 'As much as I want to shield him from the world, I can't protect him forever.'

'Of course,' Jessica nodded. 'If you need anything…' And then she left, leaving Hotch alone with his son, and his not-so-dead colleague's cat.

'Ow,' Jack cried out, and Sergio ran off to the master bedroom.

'Everything okay, buddy?' Hotch knelt down beside his son, who was sucking at his hand.

'He scratched me,' Jack pouted. 'I was only petting him.'

'Sometimes cats don't want to be petted,' Hotch offered.

'Why?'

'I don't know…would you like it if I tickled you all the time?' Jack collapsed into hysterical laughter as Hotch tickled him.

'No,' he squealed. 'No!'

'Let's get you a bandaid.' Hotch stood, making his way to the bathroom where he pulled out the first aid kit. Jack grimaced slightly as the wound was cleaned with Dettol, and picked a dinosaur bandaid over a Scooby-Doo one.

'Do you remember Daddy's friend Emily?' Hotch asked his son, as he threw out the bandaid wrapper.

Jack nodded. 'She got me my Batman toy for Christmas.'

'Sergio used to be Emily's cat, but now we have to take care of him.'

'Why?'

Hotch hesitated. Even more than lying to the team, he hated – absolutely _hated_ – lying to his son. His son looked up to him – he saw a symbol of honesty and integrity.

'Because…Emily died,' he said, and watched as his son's face fell. It was not the most elegant way of putting it, but really, there was no elegant way of dealing with death.

'Like Mommy?' Jack asked, and Hotch almost shook his head, but then stopped himself, because the parallels were a lot closer than he'd realized.

'Like Mommy,' Hotch confirmed.

'Did a bad man kill her?'

'Yeah,' Hotch nodded. 'A bad man killed her.'

'Did you get him?'

'No, we didn't.' Six years old was far too young to be hearing about arms dealers and spies and espionage. Six years old was too young to be so familiar with death.

…

Emily Prentiss spent three days in her hotel room, curtains drawn against the light. Thanks to the bandage around her stomach, she had barely moved, save to use the bathroom, and make a few, short trips outside. She needed to eat, and ordering room service for every meal was bound to look suspicious to hotel staff.

After three days of reading, and badly dubbed television, Emily found the card that the DCRI agent had given her, and called the number. She'd picked up a burner phone on her first day in Paris, wandering the city streets. It would be good for a single call, before she'd need to find another one. If Doyle was tracking the line, then she didn't want to give him any opportunity to find her.

So she went for another long walk, every single step pulling the stitches at her side. There were more than a few doctors who dealt with this kind of thing, that Emily knew of – doctors that didn't ask questions, and wouldn't answer them, no matter the torture or dollar amount offered. Their reputations, and their lives, were hinged upon discretion.

When she finally called, the voice on the other end of the line was a recorded message. 'Call back in three days on the following number.' Emily scrambled to grab a pen from her bag, managing to scrawl the number on her hand before it left her short-term memory.

Three days later – after more television, and more sleep, the message was different.

It gave her a time, a place, and an address. Emily recognized the location as a café, a fair way from where she was staying.

She dressed carefully, trying not to exacerbate the wound. If everything went according to plan, then Emily would be on her way out of France by the next morning. Paris might have been the city of romance, but it was not where Emily needed to be. She needed to be in the right place to track down Doyle, to end it once and for all. Paris was not that place.

If Doyle was looking to re-establish his former ties, then he would be returning to Ireland. That was where his affiliations were the strongest, and that was where he would find someone to track down Declan.

In theory, at least.

Where Emily ended up, would depend on her instructions from the CIA.

Anyone looking on would have seen a woman – dressed in the latest fashions – sipping her coffee and reading the newspaper. What they wouldn't notice, was the way her eyes kept darting about, trying to pick up something – anything – out of the ordinary.

The sign, when it came, was not the expected one.

After all, it was a hell of a risk for JJ to be the one giving her instructions. If Doyle was watching, then he would go after Henry and Will in order to get the other woman to talk. At the same time, it was a comfort to know that there was still someone out there – someone who _knew_.

There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask, but it was too dangerous to stay longer than a few minutes.

All she said, was, 'Thank-you.'

When Emily returned to her hotel room, it took her all of five minutes to put her things together. That was one benefit of living out of a backpack, even if it was a tight squeeze.

It wasn't a particularly long train ride from Paris to London; two and a half hours, if it was a direct trip. Emily did not plan on going direct.

If there _was_ someone else watching her, she wanted to give them a hell of a time.

Half an hour into the third leg of the journey, he finally made his presence known.

'_Nice to see you alive_,' Clyde commented, sliding into the seat next to Emily. He wasn't his usual, sophisticated self – instead of an expensive coat and scarf, he was wearing jeans and a heavy parka.

'_Nice to be alive_,' Emily replied. In English, she added, 'Russian? Really? You know how much my Russian sucks.'

'Well it's going to need to get a lot better.' He gestured towards her bag, holding the envelope with her three new identities, one of which was Russian.

Emily gave a non-committal shrug, wincing at the pain. She would use the Russian identity as a last resort.

'You've been watching me for four days,' Emily said bluntly. 'Why wait until now to say hi?'

'I wanted to wait until you were on the move,' he told her.

'Right,' Emily nodded. 'Boys and their trains. You really love your clandestine locomotive meetings, don't you?'

'One of my many quirks.'

'Like using iPhones as burners?'

'I get them cheap.' His expression sobered. 'How are you, really?'

'Sore,' Emily admitted. Unlike the team, Clyde would not fuss over her injury. It wasn't that he was unsympathetic, he just recognized that there were more important things at stake.

_Ha. Stake_.

'But I'll be okay,' she finished. After everything; every mission, every case, every bullet, every blow, every God damn table leg through the fucking stomach.

Always okay.

Some days, it was so hard to believe that lie.

'As far as we can tell, Doyle hasn't left the States yet,' Clyde told her, and Emily felt a simultaneous burst of relief and fear. Relief, because it seemed as though he hadn't caught onto the situation yet. Fear, because that didn't mean he wouldn't go after the team.

'But you don't know _where_ he is.'

'Not specifically, no.' His voice was almost apologetic, but then, that was what Emily had expected. Doyle had protected his identity as Valhalla for years. He had managed to escape a North Korean prison and make his way to the United States without so much as setting off someone's radar. If he wanted to disappear into the shadows, he could. 'But this does mean we can be a little less…clandestine.'

Less clandestine, in Clyde's terms, meant that she didn't need to shave her head and adapt to the punk-rock lifestyle for the next six months.

There was a long silence.

'I didn't sell you out,' he said eventually.

Emily nodded. 'I know.' She bit her lip. 'I'm sorry. I was just a little…paranoid.'

'With good reason,' Clyde conceded. 'Your team discovered the identity of the mole.' Emily's eyebrows raised in question. 'It was Jeremy.'

In spite of herself, Emily let her jaw drop slightly. 'Did Tsia know?'

'It doesn't look that way.'

'We worked with him for…God, Clyde, we put our _lives_ in his hands, and he just dropped us like we were nothing. For what? A paycheck?'

'So it would seem.'

Her eyes lowered. 'That means I sent Tsia to her death for no reason.'

Clyde said nothing; it wasn't an accusatory silence, but Emily could read between the non-existent lines.

'We all make decisions that we're forced to live with.' He spoke, finally, and now _he_ was the one not quite willing to meet _her_ eyes. 'We never should have taken this case. If we didn't…who knows. Maybe we'd all still be working together.'

'And maybe we'd be dead.'

It wasn't a pleasant thought, but it was the only one she had; all roads lead to Rome. Whichever path they took, they would reach death eventually.

Some sooner than others.

…

_Eight Years Previously_

Ian was away, and Emily missed him. She missed his warmth against her back, and she missed the weight of him in the bed, and she missed the way he would drape his arm across her chest in the middle of the night.

She felt kind of pathetic for it.

Normally, depending on the kind of business that was being conducted, she would have gone with him. This particular client did not trust easily, though, and really, Emily couldn't blame him. In a world where people were passing around large quantities of cash, and instruments of death, you learned to watch your back.

That was something that Emily had been doing since she was a child; the circumstances might have been different, but the reasoning was the same.

_Anyone_ could stab you in the back.

Her body tightened as the door creaked open. There was a gun in her nightstand, but she really, really didn't want to use it unless it was necessary. The soft, light footsteps, and the diminutive figure told her that it wasn't.

'What is it, Declan?' she asked, rolling over slightly. Her voice was muffled by the pillow.

'I had a nightmare,' the boy sniffled. His blonde curls were disheveled, his eyes red with tears. 'Can I sleep with you tonight?'

On another night, Emily might have said no, but tonight she didn't. If not for Doyle, she would have taken this child in as her son in less than a heartbeat. She would have loved him, and cared for him, and above all, given him a _normal_ life. The life that Doyle never had.

The life that _Emily_ never had.

Declan fell back asleep almost immediately, and Emily envied him. He had a kind of autonomy that no adult had – the freedom of innocence, of obliviousness. He didn't have to make important moral judgments, or make up lies about everything he'd ever seen or done. He was, for all intents and purposes, free.

In that moment, Emily made a decision.

After Doyle, she was done.

She would hand in her resignation, and find a different line of work. One that didn't involve selling her soul to get results. One that didn't involve giving up her heart.

Emily fell asleep to the sound of Declan's breathing.

…

For an SIS safehouse, the flat was fairly pleasant, considering the circumstances. It wasn't fancy, or extravagantly furnished, but it did have a homey kind of feel to it.

There were worse places to live.

In spite of Clyde's reassurances that Doyle was still stateside, Emily could not relax. She alternated between pacing the small living area, and lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. She'd had the stitches removed, but the wound still ached, and it would do for the rest of her life, if her past injuries were anything to go by.

It was late when the doorbell rang. In lieu of any other available weapon, Emily found a steak knife in the kitchen; a deadly weapon, if you knew how to use it right, and Emily sure as hell knew how to use it. Before Doyle, her friends never would have guessed that she was a trained CIA operative, had they not been told.

She relaxed the knife slightly when she looked through the peephole. It was Clyde, carrying a heavy looking black duffle bag.

'Were you followed?' she asked, through the door crack.

He gave the peephole an exasperated look, and that alone was enough to let Emily know that his presence was not due to coercion.

'What's in the bag?' she queried, as she opened the door to let him in. He set the bag down on one end of the sofa before unzipping it.

'Let's just say I'm the Q to your 007,' he quipped. Emily gave him a blank look. 'Please don't tell me you've never seen a James Bond movie.'

'Of course I have,' Emily said, frowning. 'Fictional espionage just doesn't quite seem your style.'

'By the very nature of espionage, I should be as mysterious as possible.'

He passed over a small silver briefcase from the bag. Emily sat down, and flipped the catches and opened it to find two Beretta handguns – a 92, and a 3032 Tomcat, if she wasn't mistaken. It had been a long time since she'd fired a Beretta.

'So what exactly will I be doing?' Emily asked, checking over the 92 – it was a little heavier than a Glock which was a good reminder of just how much damage a bullet could do. 'I can't exactly track down Doyle from behind closed doors all day.'

'And we don't expect you to,' Clyde answered. He passed over a laptop bag, and things started to click into place. 'What we want is a profile. You _know_ Doyle – beyond what you've told anyone else. You know what's important to him, the way he thinks. You know where he'll go.'

'He'll go after Declan,' Emily answered immediately. She pulled out the laptop, and started it up.

'And where's Declan?'

'Are you asking me where _I _think Declan is, or where I think _Doyle_ thinks Declan is?'

Clyde gave her a smirk. '_I _think that you would rather die than tell anyone where Declan is,' he answered. 'And I know better than to try and make you.'

Emily nodded. She wasn't quite sure how much she really trusted Clyde, but she had worked the job long enough to know that nothing was ever really a secret. The only person she could trust was herself, and even that felt doubtful sometimes.

'But enough of that,' he said. 'I do have something a little more…personal to give you.' He withdrew a flash drive from his pocket, and plugged it into the side of the laptop. There were a few folders, as well as a single video on the drive, the latter of which Clyde double-clicked. It took a few shaky seconds of trees and people before Emily realized what it was.

'Did you wear a hidden camera to my funeral?' she asked, incredulous. Clyde shrugged.

'I thought it might come in useful.'

Emily shook her head. 'You are the _epitome_ of class, Clyde Easter.' She watched the video in silence, choking up when she saw the team. They were all in tears – none more so than Garcia, who leaned into Morgan's embrace on more than one occasion. More than anything, Emily wished that she could somehow reach backwards and tell them that everything was okay; that she was fine, and that they didn't need to mourn her.

Clyde put a hand on her shoulder. He wasn't normally a "touchy-feely" kind of guy, but Emily appreciated the effort. It reminded her that she wasn't alone, that when she returned, the team would be there waiting for her.

What they would feel about being lied to was another matter altogether.

…

A week and a half after the funeral, the team was back at work. On Strauss' orders, they were off case rotation for another two weeks, in addition to their grievance leave. That was one decision that Hotch could not fault.

Without warning, Morgan had moved his things back into his desk in the bullpen, and Rossi had all but confined himself to his office. The laughter that had once run through the bullpen, the laughter that said, "this is how we cope," had all but ceased.

If JJ's departure was the first crack in what had been the best team Hotch had worked with in years, then Emily's death was a sledgehammer.

Worse, though, was the memo that came down from Strauss' office telling Hotch that Prentiss' desk needed to be cleared out. Hotch would stonewall every attempt at installing a new agent on the team; Strauss would put it down to his desire to oppose her every move, which wasn't entirely wrong.

When Emily returned, he didn't want to have to shunt her off to another department, simply because there weren't enough desks.

He couldn't put it off forever. The rest of the team would question his hesitation. That in itself wasn't as bad as the thought of them being murdered in their sleep. He found a box anyway, and his march down to the bullpen felt like a goddamn funeral procession.

The four occupants of their tiny little area of the floor stared at him in stunned silence. Garcia was perched on the edge of Reid's desk, and had been watching with interest as the young man's eyes darted across a sheet of paper like lightning. No words were spoken between any of them, yet they seemed to take a strange solace in each other's presence.

'Hotch, what are you doing?' Morgan asked, though from his tone of voice, it was very clear that he knew exactly what Hotch was doing.

All the paperwork had already been taken care of; consults were split between Morgan, Reid and Rossi, and any unfinished reports had been given an addendum. Thankfully, though, Emily had not played a significant role in the team's most recent cases; any information that would have been in her report was in everyone else's as well.

'No. No way, bossman.' Garcia stood, tears already streaking her make-up. 'You can't just pack Emily's life into a box like she meant nothing.'

'Garcia—'

'She's right,' Seaver interjected, much to Hotch's surprise. The cadet had barely said anything with regards to Prentiss' death, except to Rossi. 'Emily…we can't just…' She frowned, hesitating. 'We just can't.'

'Go get Rossi,' Hotch instructed Seaver, who stared at him in surprise before rushing off towards Rossi's office. 'We'll do this together.'

It seemed wrong that JJ wasn't there, but then, Hotch couldn't well ask her to give up everything just to help the team mourn Emily.

The desktop was mostly work related paraphernalia; textbooks with titles like_ Current Perspectives in Forensic Psychology and Criminal Behavior_, as well as a lever arch folder filled with journal articles on psychology and criminology. They went into the box first, followed by an inordinate amount of stationery.

That was the easy stuff.

The top drawer – the drawer where he had found her phone, badge and gun – held a strange assortment of things. Hotch pulled out a red heart which was, for lack of a better word, squishy.

'What is that thing?' Seaver asked.

'Stress heart,' Rossi provided.

'She was trying to use it as an alternative to biting her nails,' Reid elaborated. 'It didn't really work.'

The heart went in the box.

Morgan frowned as he pulled out a pair of floppy discs. 'I didn't think any of the Bureau computers still had floppy drives.'

'They don't,' Reid said shortly. He probably knew the exact time and date that the machines were updated, but he didn't mention it.

'She was obviously a time-traveling crime fighter,' Garcia quipped, through her tears. 'Kicking ass in both 1996 and 2011.'

Morgan gave a grin that seemed somehow sad and happy at the same time, and put the floppy discs into the box.

At the back of the drawer was a USB drive and some hand lotion, as well a half-eaten stash of Godiva, a small bottle of Advil and yet more stationery. Beneath that, a half dozen manila envelopes that appeared to be filled with notes. He kept them aside, just in case there was something relevant to their recently closed cases.

The top drawer empty, Hotch shut it a little more heavily than he had intended.

The second drawer was mostly notebooks, as well as a 2011 planner that looked all but untouched. Underneath one of the notebooks, Garcia extracted a photo that Hotch didn't get a chance to see before the technical analyst snatched it from under him.

'Oh my God!' Garcia said with a squeal. 'I can't believe she kept this.'

'Baby girl, what—' Morgan stopped mid-sentence as he saw the picture in question. 'Oh my God. Is that _Prentiss?_'

'It's her high school yearbook photo,' Garcia explained. 'I got bored, and started looking into everyone's glory days. Your 1986 afro, by the way, was _gorgeous_.'

Hotch should have made a comment about privacy, but he didn't. Hell, maybe if Garcia had looked into Prentiss' background a little more thoroughly, they would have found out about Doyle earlier. That was a line he wasn't willing to cross.

Her go-bag, they'd found in the rental car in Boston, hired out with a fake passport. The duffle bag that was under Emily's desk was a gym bag, in it her workout clothes and shoes, as well as a pair of worn leather boxing gloves.

'She kicked my ass, once,' Morgan admitted, and as a man that took great pride in his physical presence, Hotch knew that it wasn't the easiest thing to say.

'Just once?' Garcia asked, torn between amusement and tears. 'Or just once that you're willing to admit to?'

'Well I didn't know she was an ex-CIA operative.'

On those words, the conversation fell silent, as though they were all trying hard to forget the fact that Emily had lied to them. It had taken her death for them to find forgiveness. How would they react, then, to learn that Emily Prentiss was still alive, and in hiding. Would they see that as a further betrayal?

Or would the overwhelming happiness at knowing that she wasn't dead somehow erase that?

Once the desk was empty, he took the box back up to his office. Anything that had been left unspecified in Emily's will would go to the Ambassador, who had been briefed on the situation. Still, she kept the façade of a grieving parent up like only a seasoned diplomat could.

Realistically, it would have been more beneficial to Emily to _not_ bequeath her possessions to her family and friends, but that would raise the suspicions of the team, and of Doyle, if he was keeping tabs on them.

As far as Hotch knew, the former IRA captain had fled. The updates he received from Interpol were circumspect at best; really, he would have been better off asking Garcia to put her feelers out (which he strongly suspected that she was doing anyway).

The trouble was, he didn't want to give them any indication that he might be hiding something. If they knew, they wouldn't be content to sit around and do nothing. If they knew, they would want to find Doyle, and, more importantly, find Emily. That was something he wouldn't allow – not with Doyle still on the loose.

If he found out that Emily was still alive, then _nobody_ was safe.

…

_Pink Floyd_ seemed a strangely appropriate accompaniment to the mindless, contemplative state that Emily found herself in. As well as the funeral video, the flash drive Clyde left had contained a variety of music (of dubious legality), as well as photos of the team that he had no doubt procured from JJ. On the laptop itself, she found the intelligence reports of Doyle's activities, as well as all the material relating to the case itself. Over the past few days, she had been using those files to put together an updated profile.

She stared up at the ceiling, listening to the closing notes of _Time._ Twenty years ago, she probably would have been strung out on some variety of hallucinogen while engaging in this kind of meditation, which just went to show that times had changed.

Maybe not as much as she wanted them to, but they'd changed enough.

Leaving the CIA and JTF-12 hadn't exactly given her the freedom or the relaxation that she'd needed, but then, catching serial killers wasn't exactly a _less_ stressful vocation.

Maybe it was time to take up golf. Do some spin classes. Write a book. None of those avenues held any amount of appeal. As stressful as the job was, it was her life.

The smell of food wafted towards Emily's nostrils, at the same time she heard the doorbell. Clyde had mentioned the possibility of his return, but Emily unholstered her weapon anyway, right index finger pressed against the trigger guard.

She relaxed it slightly, letting the door swing open. Clyde had several plastic bags in one hand, and a cat carrier in the other hand.

Emily stared at him.

Clyde set the carrier down on the ground, and flipped open the latch. 'He's a bit shy,' he commented, as the small black kitten poked its head out of the cat carrier.

'You bought me a cat?' Emily asked, dumbstruck. 'Isn't that a little…dangerous?'

'We have this area locked down tighter than Fort Knox,' Clyde told her matter-of-factly. 'Doyle doesn't have the resources he once did. Our only problem is finding him.'

Emily let the cat sniff her, a soft but rough tongue darting out to lick her fingers. 'Thanks,' she whispered. Clyde put a hand on her shoulder.

'It's not an easy life,' he said. 'You needed some company.'

It wasn't the company that she _wanted_, and they both knew it. Still, neither of them said anything as Emily found bowls and chopsticks in the tiny kitchen. It didn't escape her memory that the last time she'd had Chinese takeout was with the team; every single little thing seemed to be a stark reminder of the life that she had left behind.

The mental and emotional wounds would take so much longer to heal than the physical ones.

Such was the life of an international spy, Clyde couldn't stay long.

'It's too risky for me to keep coming back here' he explained. 'So we'll have to use a dead-drop for the intelligence report on Doyle. Stay low – someone will contact you.'

Emily nodded. She remembered how the game worked. _ Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in. _

The door clicked shut, and it was just Emily, and a nameless black kitten.

He was smaller than Sergio had been when Emily first got him – probably a fair bit younger, too. While Sergio was completely black, this cat had a tiny patch of white just beneath his chin.

Emily _sucked_ at naming pets; Sergio had been "kitty" for almost a week, before an alcohol-fuelled Clint Eastwood marathon with Morgan and Rossi narrowed it down to Sergio and The Cat with No Name, the latter of which seemed like it would quickly devolve into just Cat, which wasn't really what she'd wanted to go for.

Since she didn't particularly want to start drinking with Doyle still on the loose, and she had no friends left with which to partake in movie marathons, the choice this time was a little harder.

In the end, she settled on The Cat who was Thursday, or just Thursday, which sounded a little less pretentious to anyone who asked. Thursday explored his new surroundings enthusiastically, and Emily couldn't help but be reminded of the first night she'd brought Sergio home to her apartment.

In addition to the carrier, Clyde had bought her a litter tray, along with enough cat food to last the week. Leaving the tiny flat was still something that Emily had reservations about, no matter how okay Clyde assured her that it was.

Ten years ago, she would have been a lot less accepting of his word; ten years ago, Emily would have been skipping between countries like they were something so much more mundane. Now, she just wanted to get it over with – to put a bullet between Doyle's eyes, or, if it didn't quite go as planned, have him put a bullet between hers. It might have been a somewhat macabre way of looking at things, but in all honesty, supreme happiness was not going to be a viable life goal at any time soon.

All she could really hope was that when – if – she ever returned home, they wouldn't hate her for what she did, both before and after her confrontation with Doyle. More importantly, she had to hope that they wouldn't resent JJ and Hotch's decision to keep the information private.

Thursday meowed as he rubbed himself against Emily's leg.

'You're a good kitty, aren't you?' she asked, scratching the cat beneath the chin. Though her day hadn't been particularly busy, Emily was already tired. She figured it probably had something to do with the fact that her body was still healing from its trauma.

It had been a little over two weeks since she'd woken up in hospital, but the fact that she hadn't exactly rested properly was a major factor in the healing process. Chances were, though, she'd be in hiding for a little while longer, though – long enough, maybe, for there not to be pain with every step.

Long enough for her hair to turn gray, and her skin to wrinkle, and for everyone to forget who Emily Prentiss even was, let alone what had happened to her.

Not long enough for the shame, and the guilt, and the hurt to disappear.

…

Doyle watched as the young boy ran ahead of his aunt, bag bouncing against his back. The blonde woman smile, and from a distance, she reminded him of Lucy – of the woman who had given birth to his son.

Anger bubbled in his heart – Aaron Hotchner clearly believed in good and evil; it was a battle that he had fought for many years, if the intelligence Doyle gathered was anything to go by. Aaron Hotchner was a proponent of justice and fairness, and yet he left his son to be raised by another.

Doyle had done the same thing – to keep his son safe. Hotchner's reason was far less noble. Hotchner had done it because he couldn't walk away from his job.

And every single day, he still risked his life, knowing that he might not return. More than that, though, he still _had_ his son.

It was very easy for Doyle to hate Aaron Hotchner.

And even easier for him to do something about it.

…

'Hey, guys.' Morgan's head jerked up at the sound of JJ's voice. It wasn't often that the former media liaison came to the BAU, but since Emily's death, the visits had become far more frequent.

He wasn't surprised; never before had the team been stronger, or closer, than it was with both Emily and JJ there. Gideon hadn't exactly been a team player, and Elle…well, as much as he loved Elle, she had her own issues. From what he knew of Seaver, she seemed like a motivated cadet; cadet being the key term in the phrase. She had no field experience, and no profiling experience. One day, she might make a qualified profiler, but he didn't see that day coming any time soon.

'So what, you're here to make sure we aren't going off the deep end?' Morgan asked, curious. Aside from Hotch, JJ's reaction to Emily's death had been the most stoic. She was good at hiding her emotions when she needed to. That was what made her such an effective communications liaison.

'Actually, I'm here to see Hotch,' JJ admitted. Looking at her watch, she added, apologetically, 'I don't really have time to talk.

'Oh.' Garcia's face fell.

'I'll come talk on my way out. We'll organize something,' JJ promised, and just like that, she was gone.

Morgan stared after her.

'Do you think they're seeing each other?' Garcia asked, and Morgan started.

'What?' he asked, a little dumbfounded by her train of thought.

'JJ and Hotch,' the tech explained. 'Ever since Emily's death, they've been having secret meetings, like they're organizing their next—'

'I think you're stretching it a little,' Morgan interjected, before Garcia could describe exactly what JJ and Hotch would be organizing. 'There's no way JJ would ever cheat on Will, and Hotch would literally walk across a room of broken glass before he got caught up in a lie that big.'

'I guess,' Garcia agreed, if a little hesitantly. 'So why do you think they keep meeting up like this?'

'Who knows,' Morgan shrugged. 'Maybe there's some residual paperwork from…' He paused, not wanting to bring up Doyle.

'Do you think they found him?' Garcia asked, fearfully. 'I mean…I've been hacking every resource I can find trying to track this guy down, but they have toys that I don't.' She paused. 'They would tell us, right? If they found him?'

Morgan let his hand clench into a fist. 'They damn well better.'

There were so many things he wanted to do to Ian Doyle. So many different ways he'd imagined killing the man, the way he killed Emily. If Hotch and JJ knew where Doyle was, then Morgan wanted his shot.

It probably wasn't the kind of integrity that the FBI was built on, but in his mind, integrity could go fuck itself. Doyle had _murdered_ one of his best friends. He wouldn't get away with that, even if it meant Morgan had to give up his badge.

Even if it meant giving up his life.

…

_Eight Years Previously_

'Shipment's coming in the day after tomorrow,' she told him, as they drove through the Irish countryside. It was dark outside – the witching hour. Perfect time for ghosts, monsters, and ambushes. She doubted that he'd ever really spent this much time with any of his other suppliers, but then, he probably hadn't been sleeping with them.

He looked at her. 'I thought it wasn't coming until next week.'

'Change of plans. ATF is getting nosy; I don't want them to raid any of our warehouses and find three dozen crates of guns and ammo.' That, of course, was a lie. The shipment was coming in tomorrow because Clyde wanted Doyle kept on his toes. "The only thing he should feel comfortable about, is you," were the exact words he'd spoken during their brief liaison the previous week

Her train of thought was interrupted by a loud bang, and the rocking of the vehicle. Her hand immediately went to her side, before she remembered that she wasn't wearing a holster. Lauren Reynolds didn't. Instead, she had it tucked into the back of her pants, its bulk disguised by her sweater.

Ian gave Emily a look, as though he was about to tell her to stay in the car. Emily knew how Lucy – the last woman he loved – had died. Under these circumstances, though, it was just as dangerous to stay in the car. They didn't know what incendiaries their assailants had, or how many personnel. They were in the dark.

Gunfire tore through the windshield, sending glass and bullet fragments flying

_Shit, shit, shit._

Emily flung open the back door, feeling the heat of another explosion at her back. She hoped like hell that Doyle had made it out of the car alive.

Not because she loved him, or anything. Because she couldn't finish this assignment if he was dead. They had Valhalla's identity, but they didn't have his distributors.

Emily tumbled into the bushes by the side of the road, ignoring the gravel rash that had torn through the sleeves of her sweater, and the burns from the explosion she hadn't quite managed to avoid. Her eyes were ringing, her heart was pounding, and _oh God, what if she actually_ died _out here?_

It was a moonless night, but the air was lit by dancing flames. Two men in dark clothing, by the first car. Emily fired two shots, and they both went down.

Emily's mother had not been particularly happy about her decision to join the CIA. The fact that her mother actually had the security clearance to _know_ that Emily was CIA was something that frustrated her to no end. Other agents told their parents they worked for museums, or NASA, or whatever the accepted cover story was these days. Somehow, every time Emily managed to get herself into trouble, she'd get a phone call reminding her to be careful.

If her Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss had had her way, Emily would be a diplomat, or working for the State Department, or any other number of political jobs that didn't involve carrying a gun. Here, in the middle of Northern Ireland's countryside, caught in a fucking _ambush_, Emily considered the fact that her mother might have had the right idea.

'Lauren.' Emily jumped at the hand on her shoulder – a wake-up call to get her mind into gear.

'Ian,' Emily breathed. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm fine.' He shook her concern off, as though getting caught in an exploding vehicle was a frequent occurrence for him. Hell, considering the line of work, it probably was. 'You're bleeding.'

'What?' Emily put a hand to her forehead, fingers coming away wet and crimson. 'Shit. We need to deal with these guys first.' Never mind the fact that she didn't know _who _they were. Hell, for all she knew, they were the good guys.

Some days, the world was a little too grey for her to tell the difference. For now, though, whoever had ambushed them was the enemy. If nothing else, it would be another step towards having Doyle trust her implicitly.

'Do you know who they are?' she asked him, breaths coming in short, sharp gasps as they crept forward.

'Ambush on the road in the middle of the night…I have a few ideas.' Emily wondered how long his list of enemies was – both from his time as an arms dealer, and as a member of the IRA. The cars were empty, as far as goods went – between them there were maybe a dozen pistols and automatic weapons. This one was personal.

'Get down!' Doyle called out, pushing Emily's head to the ground while simultaneously firing over her. A body dropped barely three feet from her, and she wondered how the hell she'd missed him.

'All down,' Liam called out, from the other side of the road.

'How many did we lose?' Doyle asked, as he stood. He held a hand out for Emily, and she bit back the scathing remark she almost made about being able to take care of herself.

'Reilly and Conlon are dead. Rick's in bad shape.'

'How bad?' Doyle asked, limping slightly as he walked towards Liam. He had a nasty gash along his thigh that was bleeding steadily.

'See for yourself.'

The entire left side of the mercenary's face was black, the smell of burning flesh roiling in Emily's stomach. If he lived –and it was a big if – he'd be looking at some serious scarring. Without even really considering the matter, Doyle pointed the gun at Rick's head, and squeezed the trigger.

Emily didn't flinch.

She wanted to.

Goddamnit, she wanted to. She'd seen a lot of people killed in her career – some of them cold-bloodedly – and she'd killed her own fair share. It wasn't something that she was ever going to get used to, even if Doyle did see it as a mercy killing.

The sun was rising, by the time they made it home. The one good thing about organized crime, Emily rationalized, was that you could always call someone in to clean up your mess.

Okay, so maybe that wasn't a _good_ thing, as such, but she _really_ wanted to sleep.

'Let me stitch that up first,' Ian said, gesturing towards the cut on her head as Emily made for bed. She'd given it a hasty gauze treatment at the scene, but it hadn't exactly been the time or the place for first aid.

'I'm not the one who has glass in their leg,' Emily countered.

'I can take care of that myself. Last time I checked, you can't stitch up something you can't see.' He let a warm hand rest on her shoulder. 'You don't have to feel weak for letting me take care of you, Lauren.'

'I don't feel weak,' Emily said irritably, and she was pretty sure that, yes, Lauren Reynolds would be kind of pissed off from lack of sleep and Doyle's coddling. Sometimes, it seemed so easy to forget that he was a murderer. 'Besides, I don't think it needs stitches.'

'Just let me take a look.'

Emily relented. She was always going to, of course. She just wanted to make him work for it – trust worked both ways.

The cut, as it turned out, didn't need stitches, but he made her drink a glass of water anyway, and promised to watch over her as she slept. She didn't doubt him, and yet she was still hesitant.

Exhaustion won over, though, and Emily sunk into the expensive sheets, and even more expensive mattress. When she woke – hours later – it was to his smile.

'Hey.'

'Hey,' she smiled. 'How long did I sleep?'

'A few hours,' he told her, pressing a soft kiss against her lips. 'I made breakfast.'

Emily gave a soft chuckle. 'We get ambushed by God knows who in the middle of the night, and you can still find the energy to make breakfast in the morning? You are…amazing.' By focusing on his good qualities, Emily could let herself believe that.

'There's something I wanted to talk to you about,' he admitted. Emily tried to act nonchalant at the declaration. 'I'm moving Declan and Louise back to Boston.'

'Boston?' Emily asked, half incredulous. 'Why?'

'It's too dangerous here. I have too many enemies – last night proved that much.'

'You think it'll be better in Boston?'

'I think…things aren't as volatile there. If we were based there, we could still fly over for business, if we needed to.' Emily raised an eyebrow.

'We?' she asked, giving Doyle a look. 'Are you saying you want to merge operations?'

He gave a shrug that was no doubt supposed to be nonchalant, as if he was suggesting that they go for a walk in the park, rather than engage in a risky business venture. 'It would be more convenient, for both of us,' he said. 'We can cut out the middle step.'

'Let me think about it,' Emily said eventually. While this was exactly what she needed to bring Doyle down permanently, he would be suspicious if she said _yes_ without even taking time to consider the matter. She couldn't blow her cover this late in the game – not with so much at stake

At the same time, she wondered if she really wanted to bring him down. She had tried giving him the out, in the hopes that maybe, he would have been interested in living a normal life. Just him, and her, and Declan. That had been too much to ask, and in a way, Emily couldn't blame him; there was no way she could ever go back to a normal life. Of course, CIA agent was a far cry from weapons dealer, but the sentiment was the same. There was a small part of her, locked deep inside, that she let loathe Doyle – without that part, Lauren Reynolds would have swallowed Emily Prentiss completely. It was that part that let Emily make a phone call to her handler.

The final stage of Ian Doyle's downfall had begun.

…

Emily jerked herself awake, cringing as she pulled at the scar. Thanks to the painkillers, she'd been expecting the nightmares, but it was still disconcerting as hell to wake up in a pool of sweat.

It took several minutes to regain her composure, during which time Thursday stared at her as though she'd gone completely insane.

It wasn't an entirely impossible scenario.

After all, human contact hadn't exactly been in high supply, and talking to a cat was not a statistically valid measure of proving sanity. It made her feel a little more secure, though, and that was something.

Emily sat up, arm resting across her stomach. She would give almost anything to be at home, with her family. Failing that, she would do whatever it took to make sure that Doyle never hurt them – never hurt Declan.

She didn't know how difficult that would be.

…

Ian Doyle gripped his weapon tightly.

Disabling the alarm had probably been the hardest part of getting inside the apartment, but being a former member of the IRA had its advantages. After escaping prison, getting inside an FBI Unit Chief's apartment was mere child's play.

Toys were scattered about the living area – that was something Declan had never done. His things were always put away, upon threat of discipline. He had never hit the boy, but then, he had never had to.

He perked up at the sound of a key in the door, and leveled his weapon at the entrance to the apartment.

The silence was overpowering. Hotchner tried to stare him down, made all the more difficult by the fact that there was a six-year-old boy clutching at his hand.

'Put your gun on the ground – backup weapon, too.'

'My son has nothing to do with this,' Hotchner said, in what was clearly an attempt at calmness. Probably right out of the negotiation textbook.

'He has _everything _to do with this,' Doyle spat. 'On the ground, now!' He let his eyes fall onto the young boy, whose face was creased with confusion. He was so young. So innocent. 'Where's…Where's my son?' he managed, through fast breaths.

_What is this? What is __**happening**__?_

_His eyes were so innocent. Just like Declan._

_Just like Declan._

'Declan?'

Hotchner charged him, then, and Ian Doyle snapped. He let his fists and his feet talk. He punched, and he kicked, paying no mind to how much damage he was doing, only that Hotchner was not going to win.

Then…then he stopped. He picked up his gun, and aimed it down at the unconscious Unit Chief. A sharp gasp drew his attention. The boy stared at him in horror, and Doyle dropped his gun.

He couldn't kill a man.

Not in front of his son.

He put a hand on the boy's shoulder. 'Come on, Declan,' he said. 'Let's go home.'


	3. Part Three

**Title: **The Oath  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13**  
>Fandom: <strong>Criminal Minds**  
>CharactersPairing: **Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotchner, others – gen/canon pairings (Garcia/Kevin, Prentiss/Doyle)  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Suspense/Angst**  
>Summary: <strong>Aaron Hotchner made an oath to bring Emily Prentiss home alive. Fulfilling that oath just got a little bit harder.  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Spoilers to Lauren (6x18).  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I'll admit, I've played a little fast and loose with some of the stuff they gave us in the episode, partially because it works better for the story, and partially because what they gave us is a little inconsistent. Take with a grain of salt.  
><strong>Author's Note II: <strong>An unbelievable amount of thanks to yellowsmurf6 and microgirl8225, without whom this story would be just a blip on the horizon.

Part Three

Declan sniffled.

'Don't cry,' Doyle told him sharply. At the sight of the boy's face, he softened. 'I know you're upset, but everything's going to be okay.'

'Daddy,' the boy sobbed, through snot and tears. 'Why'd you hurt my daddy?'

'I'm your father, remember, Declan?' Doyle tousled the boy's hair gently. 'I know we have to pretend not, sometimes, but that doesn't mean I don't love you.'

Declan's only answer was another harsh sob, and Doyle made a decision. If there was someone after his son, then he needed to be ready to fight back. He couldn't do that if Declan was being disruptive. As much as he hated the idea of hurting his own son, there was only one solution to the problem.

The dosage would have to be small – for a boy Declan's size, too much would end up killing him. Luckily, Doyle had enough experience at calculating the right dosage.

'Come on,' he smiled at his son. 'Let's go get some ice-cream.'

…

Hotch stared at the floor as the blood dripped from his nose.

_He has him._

_Foyet has my son._

_No. Not Foyet._

_Doyle._

_The man who killed Emily Prentiss has my son._

He had fought so hard, but Doyle had been enraged by a passion that only came from exacting revenge. Aaron Hotchner was intimately aware of that passion.

That was the passion that had given him the strength to defeat Foyet. Not soon enough for Haley.

'_Hotch? What is it? What's wrong?_' At the sound of Rossi's voice, Hotch realized that he had his phone to his ear.

'He took Jack,' Hotch said.

'_Who did?...Aaron? Who took Jack?_'

'Doyle,' Hotch said, and he was at least lucid enough to hear Rossi's exasperated, "_Fuck_" on the other end of the line.

'_I'll call the team in. Do you need an ambulance?_'

"Yes" was probably the most accurate answer to that question, but even concussed, Hotch knew that he wouldn't be able to take part in the investigation from within a hospital room. 'No,' he said. 'No, I'm fine.'

'_Right_,' Rossi said, in a voice that made it abundantly clear that he didn't believe it for a second. '_Don't go anywhere, we'll be there soon._'

Hotch didn't get a chance to ask where he _could_ have gone; Rossi had already hung up.

His hands were covered in blood – he couldn't quite tell whether it was his blood, or Doyle's. He had gotten in a few solid blows, but that meant next to nothing. Depending on how long he'd been out, Doyle could have been anywhere.

In the end, there was only one thing that stood in Hotch's favor.

_Declan._

…

'Why the hell would Doyle go after you?' Morgan asked, as they congregated in the kitchen of Hotch's apartment. Hotch frowned, trying to ignore the way Reid was cleaning a cut at his forehead. 'It doesn't fit the profile.'

The profile, of course, being that Doyle would murder entire families. Kidnapping a child was not expected behaviour.

'He's looking for his son,' Hotch said, giving JJ a look. Rossi hadn't called the former media liaison, but apparently, for reasons unknown, Hotch did. Maybe Garcia was right. Maybe they were seeing each other.

Seaver frowned. 'Why would taking _your_ son help him achieve that goal?'

Hotch shook his head. 'It wouldn't. I think he had a psychotic break. He was under the impression that Jack _was_ his son.'

'That's good, right?' Seaver persisted. 'That means he won't hurt him?'

There was a long, almost awkward silence.

'He's safe, as long as the delusion persists,' Rossi explained. 'But any violent behavior that Doyle might have had before is going to get worse in these conditions. We won't be able to get near him without setting that off.'

'So what do we do?' Morgan said, bitterly. 'The only person who would even come _close_ to being able to get in there without him snapping is Emily.'

JJ and Hotch shared another look.

'What is going on between you two?' Morgan demanded, and Hotch's answer was almost immediate.

'Nothing,' he said, and Morgan did not believe him in the slightest. Was there _another_ reason that Doyle had taken Jack?

What the hell were they hiding?

…

'I can't tell them yet,' Hotch said, the moment he got into the passenger's seat of JJ's car. She hadn't even asked the question yet, but he knew she was going to. 'Morgan's right – she's the only one who even has a chance of getting to Doyle. But I can't ask her to do that.'

At the same time, he knew that it might be the only way to get Jack back alive. There was no-one in the world who knew Ian Doyle better than Emily Prentiss did.

'You know she would do it in a heartbeat,' JJ said, and Hotch could hear the somberness to her voice.

'That's what I'm afraid of,' he admitted. 'We did this…we lied to them, to keep her safe. What if this time it's not a lie?' He felt an enormous amount of guilt, knowing that if he had to choose between his son's life, and Emily's, he would choose his son's. But he couldn't ask her to do this. 'I don't know what to do, JJ,' he told her, his voice cracking.

'We'll get through this,' she assured him. 'If we work off what we know of Doyle, we might not need to call her in.'

'And what about the team?'

'Telling them now will only be a distraction.' She was right. As much as he wanted to tell the team, he needed them focused on finding Doyle. 'They'll understand,' she assured him. 'Eventually, anyway.'

'The team misses you,' Hotch said, which sounded a little non-sequitur, but to him it really wasn't. Today, JJ shared the burden of truth, the same way she had as media liaison. He missed her strength, her input, her unwavering loyalty.

Maybe, if he hadn't failed in getting her back, his son wouldn't be in the clutches of a madman. Maybe, they would still be a team – a family. That definition was ever growing further and further beyond his reach.

'What do we do, JJ?' he asked, with a sigh.

JJ's answer was short, and to the point.

'We get your son back,' she said.

…

Emily jerked herself awake at the sound of a knock on the door. It was well past midnight – way too late for anyone to be calling casually, even if there wasn't anyone, besides Clyde, that ever even visited.

Still, both the CIA and the FBI had provided Emily with a certain level of paranoia. If it wasn't terrorists or arms dealers or drug lords, it was serial killers and arsonists and rapists. Some of them broke through doors. Some knocked.

The larger gun was fully loaded, with a bullet in the chamber, the same way it had been when she'd checked it before bed. The smaller gun, she tucked into the back of her sweatpants, safety on. Really, though, if 16 rounds weren't enough, then she doubted that the smaller gun would be of any use anyway.

She shut Thursday in the bathroom, much to his disdain, and tiptoed to the door.

'It's just me, Emily,' came Clyde's exasperated voice. 'You can quit the charade.'

'It's three a.m.'

'Doyle's surfaced.'

Emily's heart skipped a beat, and she rushed to unchain the door, but not before checking the peephole to double check. If there was someone holding a gun at him out of sight, well, that was a risk she was just going to have to take.

'So?' she asked. 'Where is he?' The updated profile she'd sent based on the intelligence reports she'd been given reiterated the likelihood that he would go after Declan. If Doyle had surfaced, though…

Maybe she was wrong.

'He was in Virginia,' Clyde said, morose, and it was only then that Emily noticed the apologetic look on his face. 'But we suspect his on his way to Boston now.'

_No. Please, God, No._

She let her gun hand drop by her side. 'What did he do? God, Clyde, tell me they're okay.'

'All of your team members are…alive,' he said. Not unharmed. _Alive._ 'Though it seems Agent Hotchner will have some bruises – to his body, and to his pride.'

'What did he _do_?' Emily repeated, in a voice that left no room for arguing.

'He took Agent Hotchner's son.'

Emily didn't wait for a single second worth of elaboration. She turned around and walked straight back to the bedroom, pulling things from the shelves of her wardrobe.

'Emily...' Clyde hurried in after her. 'Emily, you can't just jump on a plane back to the States – there are procedures for this sort of thing.'

Emily slipped off her sweatpants and pulled on her jeans, socks and boots. 'It is _one_ thing to let him go after my team, but I will _not_ let Ian Doyle kill a six-year-old boy because of me.'

'I'm sure I can make some kind of arrangement,' Clyde said, in the kind of way that told Emily he had already sorted out both transport and security back to Boston.

There was a long pause as she attempted to put her head through one of the sleeves of her shirt. 'Has he made an exchange demand yet?'

Clyde did not answer straight away, and from that alone, Emily knew he wasn't telling the whole truth.

'No,' Clyde admitted. 'And he won't. According to your team's assessment, Ian Doyle is in the throes of a psychotic break. He thinks the boy _is_ Declan.'

Emily stared at him. 'When did this happen?' she demanded. If the team had already done an assessment…

'Six hours ago,' Clyde told her. 'They're in Boston, now.'

Boston.

That was what the profile would have said.

That's what Emily would have said, too.

Only Boston was the last place she needed the team. She wanted them – more than anything else, she wanted them by her side as she took down Doyle – but it was too dangerous.

'And you're only coming to me _now_? What the hell were you thinking?' She felt her expression soften as realization kicked in. 'Hotch didn't want me to find out, did he?'

'He seemed to be under the impression that your first response would be to drop everything and get yourself killed confronting Doyle.' There was a brief pause. 'I can't imagine where he got that idea.'

'Thank-you,' Emily said. 'For telling me.' It became suddenly apparent just how different people Aaron Hotchner and Clyde Easter were. They were both good leaders – and good men – but their leadership styles were vastly different. Hotch had seemingly kept the truth in order to protect her, but Clyde understood that this was something that she _needed_ to do.

She could not rest, until Ian Doyle was dead. It didn't matter where she went; the burden would always be on her shoulders.

This needed to_ end_.

…

_Seven__ Years Previously_

'I want to talk to Sean!' Emily said, as they dragged her roughly into the car. The agents were Interpol, by the looks of it – Sean's people. 'Or Clyde. Anyone.'

'You're his agent?' the man in the front passenger's seat asked.

'No, I just want to ask him how his bowling team is going,' Emily snapped. 'Of course I'm his agent.'

The Interpol guy nodded. 'McAllister and Easter want to debrief you– we're taking you to the airport.'

Emily sighed, sinking back into the leather seats of the car.

She was out.

After over a year, living with Ian Doyle, _loving_ Ian Doyle, she could finally go home. Except part of her still kind of thought of home as the house in Boston, or the Tuscan villa. More importantly, home was with Ian, and with Declan.

_Shit._

For all the mission was about getting inside Doyle's head, he'd done a hell of a job of getting inside her head too.

The drive was a silent one. She didn't particularly feel like discussing the weather, and neither, it seemed, did the agents. They simply drove her to the airport, and escorted her to the private jet ready to fly her home.

At least on the jet, Emily was alone. For the first time in over a year, she could let herself relax; the flight wasn't a long one, but she still managed to squeeze in a couple of hours of sleep. It hadn't been a long day by any definition of the word, but her body was wrought with exhaustion anyway. The stress of everything finally catching up.

In Belgium, her team was waiting.

They were huddled together on the tarmac – like some kind of disjointed family. Only they weren't her family. Not really. She loved them, she really did, but the simple fact of the job was they were all too god damn paranoid to ever consider letting anyone get close.

Still, she hadn't seen any of them in over a year – with Doyle, all of her contact had been with agents that couldn't be traced back to JTF-12.

Half a second after Emily stepped off the plane, Tsia wrapped her in a warm hug.

'Good to be home?' Clyde asked.

'You have _no_ idea,' Emily breathed.

The debriefing was fairly informal, a fact for which Emily was supremely grateful. Her paperwork was another story, but considering she'd just spent almost eighteen months in deep cover, she'd have at least a few weeks to finish off a final profile.

_It was over._

So why did it feel as though it had barely begun?

…

Declan was quiet.

The sedative had worked like a charm – the boy was, for all intents and purposes, asleep.

Not unusual, really – while Doyle had not had an active hand in the boy's upbringing, he discouraged idle chatter. He'd also discouraged tears, but that hadn't stopped the sobs and hiccups that had beset the first few minutes of their journey.

He probably missed his mother.

And Lauren, too – but if Doyle got his way, then Lauren would become his mother. As sufficient a job as Louise Jones was doing, she was a housekeeper, not a warrior. Lauren would come around eventually.

She wasn't answering her cell, which wasn't unusual – sometimes, if she had important business to conduct, the phone would be off for hours at a time. Neither of them used voicemail – the kinds of things they talked about on the phone were not things that Ian particularly wanted to be recorded.

He wasn't worried: she could take care of herself.

Right now, Declan was his priority.

…

It was going on twelve hours, and it felt as though they had as little information on where Doyle was, as when they had started. Garcia had been able to track the car that Doyle had been driving, but apparently being an arms dealer meant being able to evade detection when necessary. They knew he had lived in Boston, but the address had been wiped from the records, so thoroughly that not even Garcia had been able to hack it.

The only information of note that they had, was Ian Doyle buying an ice-cream.

Hotch couldn't remember the last time he'd bought his son an ice-cream. Weeks, maybe. Months, more probably.

To think that Doyle was doing a better job of being a father…? That hurt almost as much as knowing that his son was in the hands of a psychopath.

He shot JJ a look. She had dropped everything to accompany them to Boston, but not even her expertise was enough to make the impossible possible.

_We need to tell them_, his eyes said. JJ, ever the mind reader, gave a grim smile and nodded.

'There's something I need to tell you,' Hotch said. Reid looked up from his geographic profile. Morgan and Rossi were discussing something with Garcia over the laptop. Seaver was on a coffee run. Not wanting to repeat this twice, he waited, the tension spreading like a tumor.

They _knew_ that something was wrong.

They didn't know what.

They probably couldn't even _guess_ what.

But they knew that there was something.

'We need someone who knows Doyle,' Hotch announced.

'We already tried getting in contact with Easter,' Seaver said with a frown. 'He's off the grid.'

'I'm not talking about Clyde Easter,' Hotch said. 'I'm talking about Lauren Reynolds.'

'That's ridiculous,' Morgan said, 'Emily's dead, why would—' He jerked to a halt mid-sentence, and Hotch imagined the realization hitting him with the force of a sledgehammer. The other man gave Hotch a look that was some bizarre mix of anger and betrayal, as if saying, _Please tell me you're not saying what I think you're saying._

'_What is it?_' Garcia asked. '_What's going on?_'

'You faked her death, didn't you?' Rossi asked. Hotch gave a grimace, then a nod.

'You _faked_ Emily's death?' Morgan repeated, incredulous. 'What the hell, man?'

'It was for her safety and ours,' Hotch explained. 'If Doyle knew she was still alive…'

'What, he would have gone after her? We could have stopped that.'

'It was the _only _option!' Hotch thundered. He saw Morgan's fist swinging, but he didn't do anything to stop it. Maybe that was because he thought he deserved it.

The fist cracked against his cheek, already bruised by Doyle's punches. Before Morgan could throw a second one, though, Rossi had grabbed him by the arms and pulled him away.

'Hey, hey!' Rossi said. 'Calm down.'

'Calm down?' Morgan spat. 'You want me to _calm down_? He let us _grieve_ for her. Do you know how hard is was to cope with her loss? Not to mention the fact that she's been alone for the last three weeks – how is that something I can just accept?' He looked around the room, brow creased in frown. 'Did _any_ of you know about this?'

'I did,' JJ said, eyes cold as steel. 'It was my suggestion. And I stand by it. If we hadn't faked Emily's death, then it could have ended far worse.'

She shot Hotch an apologetic look – not for revealing her part in the lie, she knew, but rather because she had implied that losing Jack was _not_ the worst possible outcome.

'_You knew?_' Garcia asked, from the laptop. Her voice was filled with betrayal – she and JJ were very close. He would have gladly shouldered the blame, but he knew JJ wouldn't have allowed that.

'That's not important right now,' Hotch said, wiping the fresh blood from his face. 'We need to get hold of Emily, if only so she can tell us anything about where Doyle's Boston haunts are.'

Rossi gave him a look. 'Can I talk to you outside?' he asked, and Hotch frowned.

'Look, Dave,' he started, as soon as they'd shut the door of the Boston Police Department conference room behind them. 'I know you're upset—'

'You think I'm upset about this?' Rossi asked, eyebrows raised. 'Aaron, you know I trust your judgment. And in this case, you and JJ were absolutely right – it was the only way to get Doyle off her tail.'

'That doesn't make it any easier.'

'I know it doesn't. That's why I think you should go back to your hotel room.'

'No,' Hotch answered, almost immediately. 'I can't do that. Not with Jack still out there.'

'You've been beaten up _twice_ today, and being here isn't going to help. Trust your team, Aaron.'

'I…I can't lose him, Dave.' Hotch was vaguely aware that he'd let out a sob. 'Not after Haley.'

'We won't let that happen.' Rossi put a hand on his shoulder. 'Please, Hotch…' Rossi went to find a patrol officer to take him back to the hotel, and Hotch let himself sink into one of the chairs in the hallway.

_What the hell have you done, Aaron?_

…

It was dark when the plane touched down on U.S. soil, and Emily Prentiss was dressed for espionage.

More specifically, she was dressed like Lauren Reynolds – creams and beiges and whites, compared to the blacks and blues and reds that Emily herself favored. If Doyle was caught in a psychotic break, then Emily was going to do every single little thing possible to keep that belief going, at least until Jack was out of there alive.

Clyde stayed behind in London, promising to take care of things on that end. Emily knew that whatever happened, she was never going back there. Today, she would either die, or be reborn, like the phoenix.

She grimaced with pain as the scar at her stomach pulled. Maybe after today, she could finally relax – whether that was in a coffin, or in her own bed, depended on what way fate took her. Emily was not a determinist, by nature, but some days it still felt like she had absolutely no control.

A CIA agent who Emily didn't recognize greeted her. She'd been out of the game for way too long. 'Everything that happens today is off the record,' she told him. Her presence here wasn't exactly sanctioned.

'Agent Easter briefed me, ma'am,' the agent answered, and Emily gave a small sigh of relief. This wasn't her operation, but she didn't particularly care in the least. Doyle was going down.

She called JJ the moment they stepped out of the airport. '_They know_,' was the first thing that JJ said. Emily bit back a curse. It wasn't how she wanted it to go, but it would have to do.

'Can you talk?'

'_Quickly – they think I'm on a bathroom break._'

'They're angry?'

'_Morgan, more than anyone. Reid and Garcia are hurt, Seaver's confused, and Rossi's pretty much just taking it in stride._'

Emily paused, biting her lip. 'I need to ask you to lie again.'

'_What are you going to do?_'

'I'm in Boston now,' Emily answered. 'I'm going to give you an address, but _don't_ raid the building. I'll go in first.'

'_Emily…_'

'JJ – I really, really hate to ask you to do this. But I need to get Jack out of there alive. If nothing else, trust me to do that. You can't tell them I'm here.'

'_I won't_,' JJ promised.

'And if I fuck it up, tell Hotch…Tell him I'm sorry – for everything.'

'_They'll figure it out – I can't just give them an address and not say where it came from_.'

'Just give me two hours to get inside. I'll send you a message confirming that he's there. You'll know when to raid the building.'

They didn't talk for much longer. JJ could only rationalize her absence for so long.

Emily gave the CIA agent the address, instructing him to drop her two blocks from the house. She hated to think what Doyle might have done to the people who actually lived there now – would their presence be enough to shake him from his delusion?

God, she hoped not.

In the distance, the sun was coming up over the horizon.

The door had been kicked open and propped back on its hinges. Emily's heart skipped a beat. If the delusion was this strong, this persistent, then the aftermath was going to be all the more catastrophic. Emily gently shifted the door out of the way, only to come face to face with Ian Doyle.

…

_Seven Years Previously_

JTF-12's source, as it turned out, was Louise Jones.

Emily wasn't entirely surprised by that fact – over the past year, she'd wondered just what the housekeeper had done to get involved in this kind of thing. To do that, and to raise Declan as well? The woman was a hero.

And Emily Prentiss had to kill her.

For the camera, at least.

Louise was a smart woman – she understood the consequences of her sacrifice. She knew that if anyone ever found out that Declan was alive, he was as good as dead. So Emily killed him.

She held the gun three feet from his head in freeze frame, while the camera flashed. Doyle had used this warehouse for storage – he'd recognize it. He would know that they died in Boston. He wouldn't think to look for them under a different name, in a different state (or country).

For all intents and purposes, Declan Jones was dead.

Doyle would never find him.

…

'Hey,' Ian greeted her with a smile, and a quick kiss to the cheek. 'I missed you.'

'I wasn't gone that long,' she replied, suppressing every urge telling her to turn away as he kissed her again, this time on the lips. Inside her pocket, she pressed the button that would send a text message to JJ.

'Someone took Declan,' he admitted. 'I got him back, but…I thought he was safer here…'

'Is he alright?' Emily asked; the concern on her face deathly real. If Doyle had hurt Jack, she could never look Hotch in the eyes again.

'He's fine,' Doyle nodded. 'Sleeping. I haven't been able to rest…I…If one of them comes back…' Emily looked down, and saw the blood that stained his shirt. Her stomach roiled.

'It's okay,' she said, brushing his cheek. 'We're safe here, remember? We're not going to let _anyone_ harm your son.'

'_Our _son,' he corrected, and Emily didn't argue. God, she so wanted it to be true.

She straightened at the sound of footsteps, and turned to see a young boy standing at the foot of the stairs.

She grinned, but inside, her heart was breaking.

'Hey, buddy.'

…

Morgan wasn't talking to her.

JJ couldn't exactly blame him.

After all, she had lied to him _again_. Even if it was to protect Jack, there was no going back on that.

They'd picked up Hotch from the hotel on their way through – while Rossi had flat out refused to let him into the field, he'd demanded to ride along anyway. Reid and Seaver stayed in the second car.

'We need to wait for Emily's signal,' JJ reiterated, for what felt like the hundredth time. She'd gotten the preliminary text from the other woman, confirming Doyle's presence in the house.

_You'll know when to raid the building_.

JJ really, really hoped that Emily didn't have anything drastic planned.

…

Jack stared at her, open-mouthed. He was too young to understand the concept of a death being faked. Too young to understand the concept of death at all, really. Emily knew that this would absolutely not help him comprehend his mother's death, but she needed to get him away from Doyle as quickly as possible. For now, the former arms dealer was complacent in the thought that his family was together again, but the delusion wouldn't last.

Ian Doyle's wrath was no sight for a six-year-old – even one as resilient as Jack Hotchner. She walked over to the stairs, and knelt by his side, wrapping her arms around him in a hug.

'I need you to pretend, okay?' she whispered into his ear, tossing an amused conspiratorial glance in Doyle's direction. She remembered – a whole lifetime ago – whispering into Declan's ear, convincing him to tickle his father, or to hide behind the sofa. She didn't blame the man for wanting to live this life again.

_You know what I am, Lauren. A warrior. I lead warriors. I raise warriors. I can't just leave. _

_**You want me to raise your son, so he can have your life?**_

_Is it that bad a life?_

_**There are so many things I would do to make you happy…but…I can't do this.**_

Once upon a time, he might have been a better man, but he was never a _good_ man. He had loved his son, and he had loved Lauren Reynolds, but love was not restricted to the pure of heart.

Emily herself could testify to that.

'Is he a bad man?' Jack whimpered, his fingers squeezing Emily's so tight she was sure he was going to break them.

Emily bit her lip. 'Just stay strong,' she told him, which felt like a complete and utter cop-out. She slipped her phone into his pocket, and kissed his cheek. 'When I tell you to, run as hard as you can, as fast as you can, and call your Daddy on that phone, okay? Do you remember his number?'

'I remember,' Jack nodded resolutely.

Emily straightened as Doyle walked behind her, putting a hand to her shoulder.

There was only one way to distract Ian Doyle.

That didn't mean she had to like it.

…

Hotch jumped when his phone rang. He pulled it out, staring at the screen. "Unknown number." JJ gave him a look.

'Emily?' he asked, hesitant.

'_Daddy?_'

Hotch was familiar with that voice. That was the voice that accompanied scraped knees. That was the voice that accompanied grumpy six-year-olds that hadn't napped. That was the voice that accompanied weeks of sleepless nights after Haley's funeral.

Right now, though, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

'Jack?' he croaked. 'Jack, buddy, where are you?'

'_I don't know_,' the boy said. '_There are lots of trees, and houses._'

'Can you any letterboxes with numbers on them?'

'_Uh huh. One one two five_,' he recited, which told Hotch he was a few hundred feet away from Doyle's location.

_Thank-you, Emily_.

'I will be there in five minutes, Jack – five minutes, okay?'

'_Okay_,' Jack sniffled.

Hotch was there in less than two. He ran towards his son, sweeping the boy into a tight hug.

'I'm so sorry, Jacky. So sorry.'

Jack brushed the bruise at Hotch's cheek. 'Why did he hurted you?'

Now was not the time for grammar lessons. Nor was it the time to explain why people did the things they did.

One thing he did know was that he wasn't going to let go of his son for a long time.

…

Emily let her lips brush Ian's – a little more aggressive than when she'd first seduced him, but it was still an Ian Doyle kiss. Another man might have wrapped his hands around her ass, but he didn't. His hand brushed her cheek, and their noses pressed together.

'I love you, Lauren,' he murmured, and for however long this was going to take, Emily Prentiss let herself _be_ Lauren Reynolds. She relaxed her shoulders, and let herself smile.

'Love you too,' she replied nuzzling into his neck. 'Come on,' she said. 'Let's move this somewhere a little more…private.' She gave him a wild grin, and took the lapel of his shirt, pulling him towards the master bedroom.

She let him push her down onto the bed, pillows jumping. Admittedly, Emily would have preferred being the one in control – if things went south, she didn't want to be pinned under an infuriated arms dealer in the midst of a psychotic break – but Lauren had never been like that. Lauren had always been content to let him dominate her. That was mostly because he seemed more likely to give up information that way.

She held her emotions in check when his hand went to her top button. The last time Ian Doyle had unbuttoned her shirt, he branded a four-leaf clover into her chest. She hoped like hell that the mark wouldn't set off his memories, but really, all she needed was to keep him distracted while Jack went for help, and if that meant fighting off a stranglehold, then so be it.

Emily Prentiss had prepared for this death a long time ago.

He kissed the peaks of her breasts gently, lovingly. He paused on the brand, and Emily's breath caught in her through.

'Is this for me?'

'I thought you might like it,' she told him, with a sigh that was simultaneous pleasure and relief. It had been a _long_ time since she'd last had sex – _years_, really – and her body was reacting to the situation accordingly. She tried to swallow the nausea in her stomach without him noticing; as much as it needed to be done, that didn't mean she was particularly happy about having to do it.

He kissed his way down her torso, unbuttoning as he went. He reached her navel, and stopped. He let his fingers brush over the scar, sending a jolt of pain down her torso.

'When did you…'

_I got this scar when you shoved a broken table leg into my stomach._

Realization dawned in his eyes, and his hand went to her wrists, pinning them against the headboard. '…Emily? You're alive.' His eyes filled with a bizarre mixture of rage and love. Before he could do anything about it, though, Emily had the presence of mind to drive her knee up into his groin. Not the classiest of attacks, but sometimes you needed to play dirty.

His fists lashed out wildly, one striking the side of her head. Emily rolled, in an attempt to gain the advantage. Vaguely, she wondered how long it would take for the team to get there; under the circumstances, she was fairly sure that she could hold him off a lot longer today, than she had managed the last time she'd found herself in a fight to the death with Ian Doyle.

Last time, she'd been concussed, dehydrated and handcuffed.

This time, she was ready; the phone hadn't been the only thing she'd brought with her. Straddling Doyle, Emily pulled the smaller Beretta from its holster by her boot.

She looked into his eyes, as her finger pressed against the trigger. They used to be the eyes of a man that she'd loved. Now…actually pulling the trigger was a little harder than she'd anticipated.

Taking advantage of her hesitation, Doyle moved upwards with enough momentum to swing them both off the bed. Emily kept hold of the gun by her fingertips, but it was a near thing. Reaffirming her hold on the thing, she turned, only to find that she wasn't the only one who had been packing.

And Doyle had _none_ of Emily's hesitations. She squeezed the trigger a split second after he did, which was a split second before his bullet tore through her shoulder, sending a wave of agony through her body. The gun fell from her fingers as her right arm spasmed, and she turned to Doyle in horror, so certain that he was going to end this, right there.

But he didn't. He _couldn't_.

Emily had fired from the hip, but the shot had gone through his chest – perilously close to the heart. His eyes were open, and there was still life left in him, but not much.

'Em—' He tried to cough out her name, choking on his own blood in the process. 'Declan – where…where is he?'

Emily didn't answer. She took the gun in her good hand, and leveled it at Doyle's head. It was cold-blooded, but she knew she had to do it anyway.

She fired twice, just to be safe.

'Goodbye, Ian.'

The wave of nausea hit her like a truck, bile rising in her throat. She rushed to the bathroom, making it to the sink, but not the toilet. Retching seemed to make Emily's shoulder hurt even more, and the fact that she was standing in front of the mirror, gripping the porcelain of the sink to stop herself from falling over, mean that she could see the blood spread across her open shirt.

She thought that maybe she could hear someone calling her name in the distance, but really, her head was spinning, and consciousness was slipping away, and it was kind of hard to tell what was real and what wasn't anymore.

Emily's fingers slipped from the basin, and her legs fell out from underneath her. As she closed her eyes, she hoped like hell that Jack had managed to call for help.

…

The sound of a gunshot was enough to send them into action.

The sound of two more was enough to send Morgan's heart thumping into overdrive.

Now, the house was quiet.

Too quiet.

There were no gunmen by the door, no minions stalking the premises. A stark contrast to the scene in the warehouse almost a month prior. Morgan hoped against hope that the outcome of the raid would somehow be different, but the stillness that hung in the air was troubling.

Over the weeks, he had become accustomed to the idea of living a life without Emily Prentiss, but the thought that she might yet be alive made his heart soar. Morgan didn't particularly care whether or not she was ready to die; he wasn't ready to lose her. None of them were.

Gripping his gun so tightly, he was afraid the damn thing might snap, he followed the SWAT team into the house. The kitchen was clear. The living room was clear.

He found Doyle's body in the bedroom, two bullets to the head.

There was blood everywhere, and it was evident that there had been a struggle, but Emily wasn't in the room.

'Emily?' he called out, hoping – praying – for a response. Then he noticed the blood trail leading towards the ensuite.

His first thought, was that they were too late. Emily's body was sprawled across the tiled floor, blood pumping from a wound in her upper shoulder. Her eyes were closed, and her body was far, far too still. Then, he saw the rise of her chest, the flutter of eyelids.

Calling for a medic, he dropped down by her side. The scene was playing itself out far too similarly to the last time he'd been in this position. This time, though, her shirt was half off, and he could see the tattoo on her stomach, as well as the scar that cut across it. The faded ink told him that it wasn't new, and in any case, he doubted that getting inked so soon after a near-fatal stab wound was a very good idea.

'You're here,' she murmured, as he took hold of her hand and squeezed it tightly. There was a strength in her voice that hadn't been there the last time, and it made him just the little bit more confident that the outcome would be a good one.

'You think I'd be somewhere else?'

'I just thought…' She swallowed, dark, broken eyes looking up at him. 'I just thought maybe…' She bit her lip, and let out a small choking sound, as though the sentence was too painful for her to finish.

'We will _always_ have your back, Emily,' he told her. 'No matter what. So next time you're thinking about chasing after an international arms dealer, remember that.'

'I will,' she breathed, trying to pull herself up by his hand.

'Hey, hey…Take it easy,' Morgan said, gently lowering her back down. 'They'll be here soon. When did you get the tatt?' He needed to keep her distracted, and the tattoo seemed like something far removed from the situation.

'Long time ago,' Emily murmured. 'Before I joined the FBI. Before I joined the CIA, even.'

'I didn't know you had any tattoos.'

'That's because you've never seen me naked,' Emily laughed, wincing at the pain that it brought. Morgan brushed her cheek with his hand.

'Is that an offer?' he asked, less out of the desire to follow through on the question than it was an attempt to keep her grounded in reality.

'In your dreams – actually, no…if you're dreaming about me naked, then I really don't want to know about it.'

He grinned.

'So you're alive, huh?' he asked, after a brief pause. Where the hell were those medics?

'Yeah,' she admitted. 'Sorry…I didn't exactly get much of a choice in that. I hope you didn't give Hotch too much of a hard time.'

Morgan chose not to answer that question. Luckily for him, though, the paramedics burst into the room at that moment, and he moved himself to the side, deciding not to let go of Emily's hand.

Not this time.

…

He had been here before.

It was the same hospital – the same waiting room, even – and it hadn't even been three months since their last agonizing wait.

He wondered if they'd even changed the magazines.

If not for the weight of Jack pressed into his side, Hotch would have paced. Since escaping Doyle's captivity, Hotch had refused to let the boy leave his side, even going so far as to hand control of the raid over to Morgan, who refused to even speak to Hotch after discovering what he had done. Judging by the look on the other man's face, the moment Jack was out of earshot, there would be a heated argument.

'I can watch him, if you wanted to go get coffee,' JJ offered in a stage whisper. Morgan had not reacted as violently to JJ's knowledge of Emily's fate, but then, JJ hadn't been the one to lead them through the aftermath.

Hotch hadn't slept for a single second since Doyle had taken his son, and he wouldn't, until he got the news that Emily Prentiss was going to be okay. He had made an oath to Clyde Easter, and after everything that had happened, breaking that oath was a horrifying outcome.

If Emily Prentiss died, then the team would never forgive him. More importantly, he would never forgive himself. It didn't matter that the choice to confront Doyle – to save Jack – had been hers. If she died, then the weight of that would be on Hotch's shoulders the rest of his life. He deserved that much.

After all, she wasn't the only one he had failed to save.

Hotch went to the bathroom first, and returned to the coffee maker to find Rossi pouring out two cups.

'You look like crap,' Rossi observed bluntly, passing one of the cups over. 'The week you've been having, it doesn't surprise me.'

'You're not going to punch me, too, are you?' Hotch asked, black eye throbbing.

'If I was going to judge your actions, I would have done it already,' the older profiler said, and Hotch knew that it was true. Rossi had never really been secretive with his motives. 'Am I upset you didn't tell me? Hell yes. Am I offended? No. You did what you needed to do to keep us safe, and more importantly, to keep _her_ safe. There is no way any of us could have predicted what Doyle did.'

Hotch gave him a look. 'We're _profilers_, Dave. All we _do_ is predict criminal behavior.'

'_With the information we had_, there was no way any of us could have predicted what Doyle did,' Rossi amended. 'You want to blame someone, blame the CIA for not sharing their reports. Blame Doyle for being a murderous psychopath, but do _not_ blame yourself.'

The scene was far too familiar. The first time had been in a back alley by a crime scene where the Reaper had killed six people. At this point, Boston was almost worse than _Florida_.

More than anything else, Hotch felt _weak_. He felt weak because he couldn't have stopped any of this. He felt weak because he hadn't done anything to fix it. He felt weak because he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.

The team would never trust him again, regardless of the circumstances.

_The road to hell is paved with good intentions._

Maybe one day, they'd forgive him.

But he would never forgive himself.

…

The world was a blurry, twisty kind of haze that Emily normally would have associated with a drug trip (only there hadn't been one of those in a long time). Reality was just beyond the reach of her fingertips.

'Emily?' a voice asked, and it could have been miles away, or just feet, but she couldn't tell.

Had that bullet actually killed her?

''m I dead?' she choked out, the dryness of her throat a good indication that the answer to the question was _no_.

'You wish you could get away from us that easily,' a second voice said, its tone a strange dichotomy between happy and sad.

Emily tried to clear both her eyes and her brain, the first task infinitely more doable than the second. Her surrounding came into focus within seconds, but it took a little longer to comprehend what she was seeing. A hospital room, yes, but with six overly concerned expressions staring directly at her. Emily immediately felt self-conscious; she _hated _being the center of attention.

Standing on the left side of the bed was Morgan and Garcia, on the right, Reid, Rossi and Seaver. JJ was at the end of the bed, but Hotch…

Emily frowned. _Where was Hotch?_

'Can someone…?' Emily gestured towards the remote that controlled the bed, after it became apparent that sitting up was _not_ an option. 'Is Jack okay?'

'He and Hotch are outside,' Rossi explained. 'We didn't want to overcrowd you.' Seeing as how there were six people in the room, Emily didn't really think that a couple of more would have made a difference, but judging from the expression on Morgan's face at the sound of Hotch's name, there was a little more to it.

Or maybe it was just the morphine.

'What about the people that lived in the house?'

'Doyle killed them,' Rossi answered shortly, clearly unhappy at the fact that she had asked the question. They had gotten Jack back, but they still couldn't call it a win.

'You are never, ever, _ever_ leaving my sight again.' Garcia dove in for what looked like it was going to be a bear hug, but changed her mind at the last second and planted a wet, lipstickky kiss on Emily's right cheek.

She was astounded – no, _perplexed _– by the reaction. They were _happy_. They weren't declaring blood feuds, or shunning her, or being distant. They were honestly, genuinely happy to see her. It kind of made her feel like a fraud. After everything she'd done, she didn't deserve this kind of love.

'Sweetie, what's wrong?' Garcia asked, concerned. It took Emily a few seconds to realize that she had started crying. With her good hand, she wiped away the tears.

'Nothing,' she said, choking on her words. 'I just missed you guys so much.' The tears started flowing a little more freely then, sending a shockwave of pain through her right side as she tried to clench her shoulders.

It took almost ten minutes for her to regain some semblance of composure; she could _feel_ their pitying gazes burning through her skin. After being away from them for what had felt like an eternity, all Emily really wanted was to be left alone.

That wasn't exactly true.

What she _wanted_ was for things to be back to normal. She wanted to be able to have a movie night with Garcia, or talk to Morgan about Vonnegut, or play chess with Reid. All without having people question her loyalty, or her past, or whether or not she was doing okay.

That kind of normalcy would not come right away. Maybe it would never come.

Doyle was dead, but things would ever be the same again.

…

It was Rossi that first suggested that they go home.

Morgan stared at him, incredulous. 'Seriously? After everything, you think we should just leave her here?'

'Emily needs to recover – both physically and emotionally – and that isn't going to happen if we hang around pressuring her into it,' the other man said. 'You can come back tomorrow.'

Morgan was about to shoot back a scathing argument when he felt Garcia's hand at his shoulder. 'He's right,' Garcia said softly.

'What happened to never letting her leave your sight again?'

'She isn't going to get abducted by aliens just because we aren't here,' Garcia argued, more bluntly than he had heard from the technical analyst in a long time. 'Besides.' She shot Rossi a look. 'I don't think he's talking about everyone leaving.'

'So what, you and Hotch get to stay here while we go home?'

Rossi stared him down. It wasn't often that he played the senior profiler card, but Morgan got the feeling that he was about to. 'You need to calm yourself down. No matter what Hotch did that you don't agree with, being angry about it is _not_ going to help Emily.'

Morgan knew that Rossi was right, even if he didn't really want to admit it. Still, it was with a lot of hesitation that he followed Garcia and Seaver down the hallway. JJ had stayed behind with Hotch, and Reid seemed to not want to move at all.

'Everything okay?' Morgan asked. Reid looked over, as if only just noticing that there was anyone else around. 'Is it…' He trailed off, not knowing if Reid had told anyone else about his headaches.

Reid shook himself out of the stupor. 'I'm fine,' he said, but Morgan could tell from the tone of voice that the other man was lying. He stared, eyebrow raised.

'Seriously, Reid.'

'It just…it doesn't seem right to just leave her here without saying anything,' Reid frowned.

'Doyle's dead. She's not going anywhere,' Morgan said, but Reid did have a point. They ducked back into Emily's room before they left, with reassurances that they would be coming back. There were careful hugs, and Reid whispered something in Emily's ear, which seemed to brighten her mood considerably.

'Stay safe,' Morgan ordered Emily, who gave a sad smile.

'I'm pretty sure I'm going to have eyes on me twenty-four hours a day for the next six months,' Emily smiled.

'I know,' Morgan grinned. 'But stay safe anyway.'

…

Rossi left not long after the rest of the team, leaving just JJ, Hotch and Jack by Emily's bedside. Jack was understandably confused by the situation – he no doubt knew that his father caught the bad guys, but explaining things like psychotic breaks, and undercover work and faking deaths was a little harder.

He didn't want to have the conversation in front of JJ and Prentiss, so he took Jack by the hand out to the waiting room, where they sat down on one of the couches.

'Do you remember when you and Mommy had to go away to keep you safe from the bad man?' Hotch asked. Jack stared across at him with broken eyes, nodding. 'Well it's like that, only we had to pretend that Emily was dead so that the bad man didn't try to go after her.'

The question, when it came, was the one that he had been expecting, but that made it no less heartrending.

'Does that mean Mommy's alive, too?'

Hotch bit back the tears that were threatening to escape. 'No, buddy. Mommy's up in heaven.'

'I miss her,' Jack said dolefully.

'Me too, Jack.'

Jack looked thoughtful, as if considering some deep question. 'Is Emily going to be my Mommy?'

_That_ question, was one that Hotch hadn't been expecting. He knew that part of Doyle's delusion meant that Emily would have had to pretend to be Lauren Reynolds to gain his trust, which also meant that she had to pretend to be Jack's mother figure.

'Your Mommy will _always_ be Mommy,' Hotch told the boy. 'But I think that Emily would appreciate it if you gave her a big hug instead.'

There was a long silence. 'Can we still keep Sergio?' He pronounced the name with extra emphasis on the "gee" sound.

In spite of the situation, Hotch cracked a small smile. 'How about we keep taking care of him while Emily gets better, and then we'll take about it?' Jack nodded. 'Remember, though, he's not our kitty, so if Emily wants to keep him, then that's her decision, okay?'

'Okay.' Jack let out a long yawn, reminding Hotch that the boy had just spent almost twenty-four hours with a psychopath, and probably needed to go home. He was taking the situation remarkably well – that should have reassured Hotch, but somehow it only made him more terrified for his son's future.

_Is this the life you've given him?_

_Will he grow up, thinking that this kind of thing is _normal?

They returned to the hospital room, where JJ was briefing Emily on the events of the past two months. She couldn't give as accurate a picture on the team as Hotch could, but that would need to wait until later.

'I need to take Jack home,' he said, guiltily. 'But I'll sort something out so I can come back tomorrow and—'

'No,' Emily interjected, surprising both Hotch and JJ. 'Tomorrow, you are going to spend the day with your son. No exceptions, okay?'

'Okay,' Hotch conceded. He saw the look in Emily's eyes. 'This wasn't your fault – you saved his life, Emily.'

'His life wouldn't have needed saving, if not for me.'

Before Hotch could argue back, Jack decided to settle the issue himself by walking over to Emily's hospital bed, and hugging her. He wasn't quite tall enough to reach, and the arm in the sling made things somewhat harder, but it did achieve what Hotch couldn't – it stopped Emily from pressing the issue further.

Her guilt – his guilt, everyone's guilt – was something that they would need to work through slowly.

Maybe one day they'd be a family again, but until that day, they just had to keep trying.

…

The day of Emily's release from the hospital, it was JJ that picked her up. Hotch was still on leave, and the rest of the team had picked up an urgent case in Cleveland.

'Your apartment hasn't been rented out yet,' JJ told her, as she pushed the hospital-mandated wheelchair down the hallway. 'But the furniture's mostly in storage.'

'I was thinking of getting a new place,' Emily said, letting her gaze focus on the doorway. She'd picked up her painkillers from the hospital pharmacy, but not taken any just yet. What she had taken, hours ago, now, was starting to wear off a little, and Emily felt the throb of pain in her shoulder. 'A fresh start, you know?'

For so long, she had spent her life looking over her shoulder. The fact that was no longer necessary instilled a sense of freedom that Emily had not felt since before Doyle. Of course, that freedom would be somewhat limited until things returned to normal.

In the meantime, she would accept JJ's offer of a spare room, feeling like an intruder in their happy, family life. The life that Emily never got to have. The life she kept throwing away.

Maybe it would be easier to go to a hotel instead – not that any of the team would actually _let_ that happen – but at the same time, she knew she needed it. She needed the warmth, and the security, and the love that being with a friend brought.

Not to mention the fact that JJ had apparently called ahead and told Will to start making lunch. It had been a long time since Emily's last home-cooked meal. Even before Doyle's return, she'd mostly subsided on takeout and hastily made sandwiches. The few dinners the team had had together at Will and JJ's house attested to the fact that the former New Orleans Detective was superb in the kitchen.

Henry wasn't old enough to be asking questions about what had happened – a fact for which Emily was extremely grateful. It had been hard enough dealing with Jack, and the memories of Declan that rescuing him had brought up.

'So what are your plans?' JJ asked, as Emily – somewhat inelegantly – scarfed down her spaghetti; someone had no doubt revealed her secret weakness for the dish.

'Put things back together, I guess,' Emily said, once she'd swallowed. 'The team…I know they're keeping quiet about it now, but eventually, they're going to start questioning my loyalty. I don't know if I can handle that.'

'You thinking of resigning?' JJ asked, and Emily was grateful for her straightforwardness on the issue.

'I was going to go see Hotch tomorrow,' Emily revealed. 'To discuss my options.'

And that was how Emily found herself outside Hotch's apartment the next day, overcome with a kind of nervousness that she hadn't felt since she'd first joined the BAU, and blatantly lied about her past.

'Daddy, there's someone at the door!' she heard Jack's voice call out, but it was still another couple of minutes before the door opened; after Foyet and after Doyle, Emily couldn't blame Hotch for being hyper-vigilant about security. Maybe he was considering moving, too.

'Emily!' Jack shouted, and wrapped his arms around her waist in a tight hug. It seemed almost bizarre – a few months ago, she had just been another one of his father's colleagues. Now, she was the woman that warranted a bone-crushing hug as Hotch opened the door.

'Hey,' Emily said, awkwardly.

'Come on, buddy, give Emily a bit of room to breathe.'

Jack obliged, instead taking hold of her arm. 'Come see this!' he said, enthusiastically, pulling her across the room. Emily shot Hotch a look of helplessness, and she could have_ sworn_ that he was laughing.

'It's a kitty fort,' Jack announced, gesturing to a structure of pillows and blankets. 'Sergio sleeps in there, sometimes.' He flipped the blanket up, revealing the black cat stretched out, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. Emily scratched his belly, causing the cat to open his eyes blearily.

'Hey, Serge – did you miss me?' The cat gave an apathetic yawn, and for a moment, Emily wondered if he had even realized that she was gone. Then, he stood, stretching, and walked over to rub himself against her pant leg, meowing. 'Great,' she laughed. 'I'm back five minutes, and the first thing you want is food.'

'He has _treats_,' Jack told her in a stage whisper, as though afraid the cat might discover his nefarious plan. 'Daddy?' He looked up at his father, question in his eyes.

'You can give him a treat,' Hotch agreed, some amount of humor still in his voice. Jack ran off in search of said treats.

'He hasn't been a pain in the ass, has he?' Emily asked, concerned that Sergio might have been shedding his fur all over Hotch's suits.

'Aside from a few attempts at sleeping in my shoes, no,' Hotch said with a smile. In a softer voice, he added, 'Jack loves him.'

Emily nodded. 'Do you think…you'd be interested in keeping him?' she asked, even though she wasn't entirely sure herself. She loved Sergio, but it was painfully clear that Jack was smitten, and after everything that happened, a cat like Sergio was good for him.

'I think Jack would love you for all eternity if you asked him that.'

So when Jack returned with the back of treats, Emily asked him. His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree, and in that moment, Emily knew why Doyle had seen Declan in those eyes. They had the same tragic innocence, the same sweetness that almost broke her heart.

'You'll still come over and visit him, won't you?' Jack asked, in the tone of voice that suggested he was asking less for Sergio's sake, and more for his own.

'Of course I will,' Emily smiled. She stood, leaving Jack to play with the cat while she followed Hotch into the kitchen.

'Coffee?' he asked.

'Sure,' Emily nodded. She paused, biting her lip. She wasn't quite sure how to tell him.

'Everything okay?'

'Yeah,' she nodded. 'I just…I didn't come here just to check on Jack.'

'I know.' _Of course he did_.

'I wanted to tell you in person that I plan on resigning.'

'I stepped down as Unit Chief,' Hotch revealed, and Emily had to stop her jaw from dropping.

'You're kidding me.'

'Being Unit Chief is based on trust,' he told her, spooning the exact amount of Splenda that she took into one of the cups. 'I lied to the team – we can't function if they don't trust me to have their back.'

'You did it to protect them.'

'We both know that doesn't make a difference.'

There was a long silence, punctuated only by Emily's thanks for the coffee that Hotch passed over.

'I don't think Rossi will be all that willing to let you go,' Hotch said eventually.

Emily frowned. Last she'd heard, it was Morgan that was tipped to take over the BAU once Hotch stepped down. 'Why Rossi?' she asked. 'Why not Morgan?'

Hotch gave a grim smile. 'Because apparently punching your Unit Chief after discovering that he was complicit in faking the death of your colleague is frowned upon by the Section Chief.'

'Oh,' was all Emily said. It was all she _could_ say. The team had broken apart, and it was all because of her. 'We aren't coming back from this, are we?' She stared over at Jack, who was lying outside the cat fort, staring upwards at the ceiling. She wondered if he'd had any nightmares about Doyle yet. He hadn't hurt Jack as such, but he _had_ taken the boy away from his father, which was nightmare enough.

'You ask some people in the Bureau, and we've been on the verge of mental breakdown for the last seven years,' Hotch said, which wasn't exactly the answer Emily had been looking for. 'Hanging onto the cliff's edge by our fingertips seems like something profilers are especially good at. We've had obstacles in the past – this one might seem like it's a little more devastating, or a little harder to get through, but as stubborn as we all are…we'll make it through this.'

Somehow, Emily believed him.

…

In Santa Monica, the sun was shining.

Emily Prentiss lowered her sunglasses as she stopped outside a single-storey house. It wasn't quite summer yet, but she sweated profusely anyway – with her arm still in a sling, driving wasn't an option, so she had resorted to public transport.

Every single member of the team had offered to accompany her on the trip, but she had declined – this was something she needed to do alone. Still, the fact that they had even offered gave her some comfort in the thought that maybe one day, things would return to normal. Rossi had refused her resignation – a fact which did not surprise her in the least. He suggested that she take a vacation – a _real_ vacation – and think about it a little more.

She stopped at the doorstep, fist hovering just inches from wood. It had been eight years – would he even remember her?

Emily knocked, and held her breath.

The woman who answered the door was in her mid-fifties – her hair had gone grey, and her face was gaunt, but Emily still recognized the housekeeper that had fed JTF-12 intel on Doyle's activities. Garcia had tracked down the woman in a little under five minutes, which made Emily a little doubtful about the security measures in place. It took all of three seconds for Louise Jones to realize who Emily was, her eyes widening in surprise.

'Come in.'

Louise – or Carole, according to her new identity – made tea. 'We saw your death on the news. Steven – Declan – was very upset.'

'I wasn't sure he'd remember me,' Emily murmured, staring over at a photo on the wall. Declan would be twelve – almost thirteen. He had his father's smile.

'He keeps a photo of you in his room…Ia-His father never told him anything about his real mother. He always loved you.'

Emily shook her head. 'I'm not here to take him from you, I just…I came to tell you that Ian Doyle is dead.'

For a long while Louise didn't respond. 'We've been living this life for so long, it sometimes seems surreal to thing that there might have been something else before it.'

'If you want to go back, then I can make it happen,' Emily told her. 'But if you don't, then that's okay too.'

'He's not like his father,' Louise said, which wasn't really an answer at all. 'He's kind and intelligent and compassionate. Nothing like his father at all.'

'We have you to thank for that,' Emily said, warmth flooding her heart. To know that Declan Jones would not become like his father was the greatest gift that she could have ever hoped for.

Before Louise could answer, the door swung open, and Declan walked in. Emily could have sworn that her heart skipped a beat.

She stood, not particularly caring that she knocked her tea over. Declan let his school bag drop to the floor, and ran towards Emily, wrapping her in a tight hug.

'You're getting tall,' she said with a laugh. No longer was he the quiet, shy little boy with a high-pitched laugh, who loved playing hide and go seek.

'I play power forward,' he offered nervously, and Emily gave a wide smile.

'Maybe you two should go for a walk,' Louise suggested.

'Are you sure?' Emily asked; she wanted nothing more than to spend some time alone with Declan, but she didn't want to intrude.

'Of course. It's safe, now.'

_It's safe, now_. No matter how many times Emily heard those words, she would never quite believe them. Ian Doyle was dead.

She was freed of that burden.

They walked down to the pier, as Emily asked every single question she could possibly think of. Favorite book (_Harry Potter_), favorite movie (_The Empire Strikes Back_), favorite ice-cream flavor (vanilla fudge ripple).

At a lull in the conversation, Declan asked, 'Did he do that to you?' as he gestured towards her arm.

'Yeah,' Emily said, but she didn't elaborate. Thirteen still wasn't quite old enough to understand what Emily had done. Hell, she didn't even really understand it herself.

'Did you kill him?' The tone was not accusatory, but rather…fatalistic. As if he already knew the answer.

'Yeah.'

'Am I going to turn out like him?'

Emily stopped in her tracks, and turned to face Declan. His bright blue eyes were calm, and serious. She put a hand to his shoulder. 'No,' she told him. 'Absolutely not. Your father…Your father didn't have a very happy childhood, and that's part of the reason why he turned out the way he did. What you want to do with your life – that's up to you, not your genetics.'

Declan nodded, but Emily could tell that he didn't quite understand that either. One day, he would.

Down at the pier, they played skee-ball (left-handed, in Emily's case), and ate ice-cream as they watched the sun set over the ocean.

Tomorrow was a new day.


End file.
